RD + VB - #fridayflash

Vic was proofreading advertorial crap for a business supplement in the Weekly Herald.

It was stinking boring.

She circled typos and grammatical glitches and she tapped her red pen on the desk and wondered if she was really drooling or just felt like it.

She finished one story, drew a dramatic ‘V’ with a flourish on the top of the page and picked up another one.

This one was about Drysdale’s Drycleaning.

Her boredom sat up smartly and started marching.

“Oooh,” she thought, and began to read.

“2009 wasn’t the easiest year for Fiona Drysdale and the staff of Drysdale’s Drycleaning. The sudden death of Fiona’s husband, Ray, was a shock to say the least.”

Vic stared at the story, shocked as blue blazes.

“Wha?” she said out loud.

Her breath whooshed out of her in one surprised push and she swayed slightly in her leather chair. Her heart drummed in her chest and she felt dizzy, faint, sick, hot, cold, everything, she felt everything, and all at crazed once.

Ray was dead. Ray was dead? 

When did he die? She scanned through the story. Six months ago.

Dead. For six months. And she didn’t know. How could she not know?

She e-mailed Donny Cruickshank, the ad rep. “Ray Drysdale died? How did he die? I just read the story in Business Today... I didn’t know he was dead. What happened?”

The answer came back fast. “Heart attack. Dropped dead in the store. It was big news – where the hell were you?”

Vic didn’t know. She thought about it, then flipped through her calendar.

The Dominican. She had been on vacation with her new boyfriend in Puerto Plata that week.

Still.

You’d think she would have heard something about it.

It was a small town, for pete’s sake. Didn’t anybody gossip anymore?

Vic needed to cry. She picked up her purse and went to the ladies room, trying to look normal, trying not to wobble, or fall down.

Ray was gone, Ray was gone, he was dead. He was actually dead.

She stumbled into an empty stall and sat down hard on the toilet, the words repeating themselves over and over, unencumbered sobs retching out of her like shards of sharp metal.

“Ray,” she whimpered.

The last time she saw him was in the back of his store. He tried to kiss her. She tried to say no.

She said, “I can’t. I’m seeing someone now.”

“Come on, Vic,” he said. “Once more. We’re so good at this dance, you and me.”

“I can’t.”

He sighed. “Why’dja come here then.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. To say good-bye, I guess. Maybe to say thanks. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe if things were different. But they’re not.”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, staring at the ground, his arms crossed against his chest.

“You’re married,” she said.

He looked up angrily. “I know that, Vic, for crissakes. Tell me something I goddamned well don’t know.”

She was nervous. She was sad. She was still so attracted to him.

“You’re married,” she said. “And I don’t think you really know that at all.”

It was the last time she saw him. The last time they talked. He didn’t e-mail her anymore and she didn’t e-mail him. Her new boyfriend was taking up all her thinking time and it wasn’t long before she stopped giving Ray as much as a single thought.

But dead.

She couldn’t believe it.

There would be no public grieving for her. No funeral. No sympathy cards. No “I’m sorrys” whispered by understanding co-workers. Nobody ever knew about her and Ray. Nobody suspected she might give a rat’s ass when he kicked it.

She hugged herself in the washroom stall, staring at the graffiti-scratched door in front of her. “Hark the Herald, bitches sing, glory to the ding-a-ling” somebody had written. She wondered what the hell that meant.

Somebody else had drawn a heart with their initials on it: CE + DW. She had no idea who either person was.

She closed her eyes.

Vic never thought she was the kind of woman who would carry on with a married man. She never knew why she did it. She figured that if someone hurt you bad enough that it was a way of getting back. Or maybe she was just going through a lonely patch when they met and she found it hard to say no to him. Or maybe she was just morally bankrupt with no redeeming qualities.

She sobbed, hanging her head low.

She was no good, no good, no good at all.

And Ray was dead.

She thought of the night on the back of his motorcycle.

They’d been to see a movie and afterwards they smoked a joint in the parking lot, giggling like schoolchildren. She climbed on the back of his bike and they took the long way home, down a long deserted secondary highway, rippled with curves and hills. The warm summer air streamed across her body on the high parts; in the valleys, the air was funereal cold and grave-damp. She remembered thinking, a deer could run out and we’d be dead, just like that, dead in the blink of an eye. But I am ready, she thought. I can die right now, without regret, because I am alive. I have never been this alive.

She stretched her arms wide into the rushing wind and threw her head back and shouted obscenities to the stars, hugging his strong body with her steely thighs.

Really? Tonight?

Credit: Diane deGroat

So, it's only Wednesday night, too early to be worried about #fridayflash.

Because I always write flash on Thursday night. Don't you?

But then I realized I'm going camping tomorrow morning. To a place with no cell service and therefore no internet.

Huh, I said to myself.

Does that mean I have to write a story tonight?

But I haven't even got an idea yet... well, sort of an idea... but does an idea constitute an entire story?

Huh, I said to myself,

And hey, the American Idol results show is on tonight.

Can I write a story around the American Idol time frame?

Huh, I said to myself.

And I have to phone my mother and my kids before I go, because I won't be talking to them for four days. Can I phone my mother and my kids and watch American Idol and finish packing and write a story?

Hell, I don't know.

Well, actually I do.

I wrote one.

Whether or not it's worth a hill of beans is really up to you.

By the way, since I will be in the middle of nowhere, I won't be reading and commenting on any flash, either. I do promise I'll be back with clear eyes on Sunday night, ready to see what everyone is up to.

I hope I don't miss much.

I do hope that Lynda and Mark and CJ post a flash. Lynda is just new and Mark is almost new and CJ has been too busy working out to bother writing. But I do miss her stories and I hope she throws one into the ring.

I hope Mom finishes her quilt.

I hope the boys have a great weekend and do more than play video games.

I hope that Peggy has a wonderful writerly time in New York City. Lucky broad. And I also hope she wins that writing competition she's been busy with.

I hope Laura writes about Death and Chronos again.

I hope Laurita and Alan don't think I've been smoking something for writing weird comments on their blog and I sincerely hope Alan's dog is not dead.

I hope Kat gets over that mysterious and evil man she's been blogging about lately. Either that or he comes to his senses and gets back with that sexy woman.

I hope Deb writes lots of funny things about anal husbands and funny golden labs named Lucy.
I hope Lou and Carrie and Liz get feeling better. 

I hope Anthony gets to come out of the basement once in a while and John makes it out of the bathroom.

I hope Mark does well in his speaking engagement.

I hope Aaron makes out ok with all those pot-licking kids.

I hope everyone at work doesn't miss me too, too much, even though I am rather indispensable.

I hope Vic's key works. I hope Leah finds lots of typos in Jason's ads.

I hope the ants piss off.

And I most sincerely hope me and Dave catch lots of big fish.

Oh, I also hope he's not asleep yet.

Good-night everyone. Sleep tight. And don't let the bed bugs bite, ok?

The Fish Are Waiting

Tonight we stowed sleeping bags, marshmallows and deet.
Strawberry jam, Jiffy Pop and enough bacon to start a new pig.
Gasoline, lifejackets, paddles and an anchor that almost, but not quite, weighs as much as me.
Dog food, dog leash, pretty pink dog sweater, just because.
Mepps, dew worms and freshly strung poles.
Axe, pocket knife, compass, granola bars.
Cards, potato chips, high-test Coca-Cola. OK, and maybe some rum. Definitely some Bailey's for coffee.
And a book.
Tomorrow night we throw the boat on top of the Jibberty.
We hook up the trailer, and check the lights.
And run through the list, just one more time.
Thursday morning we wake up before the birds and migrate north, to Kiosk, to Algonquin, to the first trip of this new season, to fat lake trout and blackflies the size of rock bass.
To adventure and bliss.
But that is still two sleeps away.
There is still tonight.
And tonight a blue moon shines through the clouds, shines through the white pine, shines through my window.
It paints the face of my true love with soft light, and the face of my dreams with great expectations.

#fridayflash - Maxine

The salesman’s Impala rushed straight through the setting sun.

The bag lady curled up in a ball.

It was early Friday evening, late March. The snow was gone and the days were warming up but it was still below zero most nights.

Donald Johnson chawed on the remnants of his stick of Juicy Fruit and turned up the radio when Prince started singing When Doves Cry. He loosened his tie a bit more then said to hell with it and pulled it right off, tossing it in the trash-littered backseat alongside a few dozen empty Tim Horton’s coffee cups and some Big Mac styrofoam clamshells. The car stunk like rotting lettuce, spoiled cream and Aqua Velva but Donald didn’t notice. He spent all week in the car, hawking wedding invitations to mom and pop stationery stores all along the Highway 401 channel from Kingston to Windsor. It was a hellish way to make a living but it was enough. Enough to keep Janet and their four youngsters in an almost new three-bedroom ranch bungalow in Lindsay, enough to pay for their braces and their hockey and their dance lessons. It was enough, all of it, and Donald wasn’t complaining.

Every Sunday night he kissed them good-bye and headed west along Highway 7 and then south on Highway 12, through sleepy whistle stops like Manilla, Sunderland and Port Perry on his way to the golden horseshoe of southern Ontario. Every Friday evening he turned the Impala around and it shot north almost of its own volition. He was happiest on Friday nights. He thought about hugging his kids and making love to his young wife and he smiled and he sang along with the radio.

Maxine Pedlar was hungry and so were the dogs. They whimpered and fussed and she shushed them, told them to quiet down and go to sleep. She was as cold and hungry as they were, but there was nothing she could do about it, not until it was full dark. Not until the restaurant across the highway shut down for the night.

She stared out of the glassless window at the winking neon sign with its red lettering and turquoise palm trees. The Paradise Grill was a ridiculous name. A roadside diner with delusions of grandeur, The Grill was only a year old in its most recent incarnation, but it was already doomed to fail. It was one of those jinxed pieces of cheap real estate that got picked up by the hapless and the hopeless, who flushed borrowed coin down their wasted dreams, only to have customers stay away in droves.

Nobody stopped at roadside diners anymore. Travelers wanted the same cup of coffee, the same hamburger, no matter where they landed. An empty parking lot and a winking palm tree was not enough to get drivers to pull over.

They might close early tonight, Maxine thought. The only car in the lot belonged to the owner, who was also the short order cook, the bartender and the waiter. She would wait until the neon sign turned off and the owner got into his K-car and drove away. Then she would scurry across the highway to the restaurant’s dumpster out back. There would almost certainly be enough food for her and the dogs.

She’d pick up some trash, as well. Something to burn. Maybe there’d be enough to keep a fire going tonight. She was hopeful.

Maxine lived in an abandoned farmhouse directly across from The Grill. The tumbled down building was the bane of the restaurant owner’s existence. He blamed it for his lack of customers and told his banker nobody wanted to eat fine food with a view like that. Privately he worried about the rats that might live there, but Maxine knew the rats came from the restaurant, not from the house.

What the restauranteur failed to notice was the middle-aged woman who lived across the road. He had seen her dogs the odd time, but he didn’t think anything much about them. They never bothered him, mostly because Maxine kept them tied up in the daytime. She let them roam at night because there wasn’t another house for miles in either direction. Just acres of farmland. And then this tacky roadside diner across from an abandoned house, followed by more farmers’ fields.

The spot was pretty much the middle of nowhere and that was why Maxine liked it. And it’s why nobody in the Port Perry area even knew there was a bag lady living in their midst.

Maxine wasn’t always a bag lady.

She was the only child of a businessman and a schoolteacher and she was raised among Rosedale’s cloistered rich. She went to a private girls’ school and then the University of Toronto. She graduated from both with honours and began working as a librarian at the city’s main reference library.

It was about the time she started working that she got sick. It started so innocently. She found it hard to concentrate sometimes. And then she had trouble relaxing and sleeping. A person who always had many friends, Maxine suddenly wanted to be alone. She gave up all interest in people and developed a strong affection for animals. She called in sick a lot. She stopped taking showers. She got surly and ugly and hard to understand. Her parents had never known anyone with schizophrenia and they were shocked and embarrassed by their doctor’s diagnosis.

For years Maxine struggled to retain her crumbling sanity. Some days she took her medication. Some days she let the voices take over. The latter days grew more common and, as years passed, Maxine succumbed to her illness and disappeared into the streets.

She had come from Toronto last fall, walking and hitchhiking, anxious to leave the harried hectic city life behind. There was no more air there for her to breathe. One day she woke up on her cardboard bed over a subway grate and she gasped like she was choking. She’d had enough. She stood up and started walking north. And she walked and she hitched and she walked, but mostly she walked, holing up in culverts and barns along the way, collecting stray dogs as she went, until she came to the abandoned farmhouse across from The Grill and called it home.

Maxine petted the dogs, listening to their stomachs growling in a chorus, and waited until the neon light went dark and the K-car pulled out onto the highway and headed north.

She stood up, her arthritic knees popping and hurting, and she pulled her plaid jacket closer around her thin frame.

“Stay,” she told the dogs, leaving through the doorless doorway, hugging the brick walls like a jagged shadow. The dogs barked. One came outside, head lowered, tail down but wagging, hopeful.

“You go lie down, King,” she hissed and the dog slunk back into the house.

Maxine picked her way carefully down the drainage ditch and up to the shoulder of the highway. She stopped. A car was coming from the south. She waited.

King, who was the youngest of her collection of dogs and not the most well-mannered, bounded up through the ditch and onto the highway, joyfully anticipating a walk with his mistress and maybe a rummage through the dumpster.

“KING,” she cried out and lurched towards him, in front of Donald Johnson’s speeding Impala.

“This is what is sounds like, when doves cry,” Donald sang as the grille struck Maxine and tossed her weightless body into the air and onto the pavement like a handful of brittle sticks.




For Maxine, who loved animals more than life itself.

The Blackfly

OMIGAWD!
I swear I am related to this woman.
Deb, over at My Great White North, just tickles me with her blog. Always funny, wry dialogue accompanied by funny, wry photos, usually of her dog, Lucy, and their escapades in the great white north. I don't know Deb, not personally, but I think we've become really good blog acquaintances and I sing her praises every chance I get.
Today, though, today she blew my socks off.
Deb posted my FAVOURITE song/video in the whole WORLD.
The Blackfly is a quintessential north Ontario favourite. It's been around, I dunno, for YEARS as a National Film Board short but the song was written in 1949 by a guy who was sent up north to do surveying and was overwhelmed by the nasty blackfly.
Do me, and yourself, a favour. Pour yourself a cuppa joe, go to Deb's blog and settle back for five minutes of BIG FUN!
Then come back and tell me what you thought!
Oh, and while you're visiting? You might want to peruse Deb's other offerings. I look forward to her stuff every single day. She is a little known treasure of this place we call Muskoka.
And Deb? Seriously, we have to have coffee some day.
Click HERE.

The Trout Lilies

SPRING HAS SPRUNG on the river.
This evening I lay down in a bed of dogtooth violets and watched the azure sky. The blackflies and mosquitoes are out but there are blessedly few of them and they are docile and sleepy.
The violets were a surprise.
When you buy a home each new season unveils its own mysteries and spring's surprises are the sweetest. Tiger lilies are growing at the front, irises at the riverbank and, under the dappled shade in the backyard, a patch of yellow dogtooth violets, or trout lilies as they are also known.
They are the faeries of the forest; tiny wee treasures wearing dazzling yellow coats to keep them snug on frosty spring nights.

What Women Talk About On Friday Night When There's Nothing On TV

Friday night: nothing on TV.
CJ Hodges-MacFarlane and I are goofing around on Facebook. After 31 comments back and forth we decide to take it to Messenger. Mostly our conversation revolves around the upcoming nuptials of her five-year-old daughter, Maggie, to my nine-year-old son, Sam.
Maggie already knows what she's wearing and Sam already knows he'd rather be stark naked than caught dead in a monkey suit. Maggie is planning her visit to Canada. Sam is thinking about moving to Siberia.
We also talk about writing a lot.
I drive CJ (and  a lot of people) crazy because I am the world's oldest and fattest cheerleader, always trying to talk someone into something. With CJ, I'm always trying to talk her into writing more.
We begin this conversation when it's almost done, with CJ telling me to "put away my pom-poms."


CJ says: (10:56:24 PM)

put away your pompoms .. we'll see

Cathy says: (10:56:31 PM)

HEH

Cathy says: (10:56:34 PM)

pom-poms

Cathy says: (10:56:41 PM)

I shoulda been a cheerleader.

Cathy says: (10:56:49 PM)

Yah, but look who talked who into fridayflash?

CJ says: (10:57:09 PM)

yes, but you're a natural, i was just fooling around

Cathy says: (10:57:26 PM)

yes, but you're a natural, i've just had more practise.

CJ says: (10:57:34 PM)

LOL

Cathy says: (10:57:37 PM)

LOL

Cathy says: (10:57:39 PM)

yourself...

Cathy says: (10:57:51 PM)

I'm so tired I feel like I'm writing your story.

CJ says: (10:58:11 PM)

heh - okay - you can be a guest blogger on mine .. you're into that!

Cathy says: (10:58:19 PM)

I'll guest anywhere....

Cathy says: (10:58:22 PM)

BRING IT ON

CJ says: (10:59:01 PM)

you can write my day for me. "Today CJ woke up to the chirpy voice of Maggie asking to see a picture of Sam, before she even got out of her little bed."

Cathy says: (10:59:32 PM)

YOu should see Sam's face! He just came out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth, I read that and he ran away again!

CJ says: (10:59:43 PM)

LOL!!

CJ says: (11:00:00 PM)

well if he wasn't so darn handsome

Cathy says: (11:00:01 PM)

I think he thinks she's cute, for a stinky girl, that is.

CJ says: (11:00:23 PM)

cute like a puppy, not cute like a girl - which bodes poorly for maggie's little wedding plans

Cathy says: (11:00:24 PM)

Angus thinks she's a cute little kid, y'know, for a little kid.

Cathy says: (11:00:43 PM)

Sam is at that stage in his life where all girls are icky.

Cathy says: (11:00:49 PM)

Except his mother, of course.

CJ says: (11:00:57 PM)

don't worry, her teeth will come in all funky and she'll get fat and snottier

Cathy says: (11:01:10 PM)

Sam says, "YAAAA."

Cathy says: (11:01:14 PM)

Not sure why.

Cathy says: (11:01:28 PM)

Just like us all. Crooked, fat and snotty.

CJ says: (11:01:34 PM)

LOL - exactly

Cathy says: (11:01:36 PM)

No wonder men love us so.

CJ says: (11:02:09 PM)

so far, all the girls have scarily straight teeth. JT's are a bit jumbled, but not too bad. I had braces

Cathy says: (11:02:21 PM)

I had fake braces.

CJ says: (11:02:32 PM)

I had fake glasses

Cathy says: (11:02:35 PM)

The kind where the dentist takes out four teeth and wraps a rubber band aroound the remaining four.

Cathy says: (11:02:42 PM)

I had real glasses.

Cathy says: (11:02:48 PM)

I had fat calves.

CJ says: (11:02:56 PM)

i had a fat tummy

Cathy says: (11:03:05 PM)

I had no boobs.

CJ says: (11:03:16 PM)

i had a deformed toe

Cathy says: (11:03:23 PM)

I had no eyelids.

CJ says: (11:03:26 PM)

ew

Cathy says: (11:03:38 PM)

Do I win?

CJ says: (11:04:01 PM)

well, that was a scary mental tortorous picture, but i doubt you meant it literally - so no.

Cathy says: (11:04:10 PM)

ACtually, I did.

CJ says: (11:04:32 PM)

what do you mean, no eyelids??

CJ says: (11:04:45 PM)

who doesn't have eyelids?

Cathy says: (11:04:50 PM)

Me and the boys are comparing eyelids.

CJ says: (11:04:50 PM)

your eyes would get dusty.

Cathy says: (11:04:57 PM)

And they'd fall out, true.

CJ says: (11:04:58 PM)

oh.

Cathy says: (11:05:05 PM)

I'm not lacking. Just challenged.

CJ says: (11:05:09 PM)

LOL

Cathy says: (11:05:11 PM)

Not a lot of room for eyeshadow.

CJ says: (11:05:16 PM)

i'm overabundant

Cathy says: (11:05:23 PM)

Oh sure. Brag.

CJ says: (11:05:28 PM)

i just did.

Cathy says: (11:05:28 PM)

HEY

CJ says: (11:05:32 PM)

what?

Cathy says: (11:05:48 PM)

I am going to copy this part of the conversation and blog it tomorrow. Is that OK with you?

CJ says: (11:05:58 PM)

uh, sure?

Cathy says: (11:06:25 PM)

I'll call it What Women Talk About On Friday Night When There's Nothing On TV

Cathy says: (11:06:30 PM)

Or something.

Cathy says: (11:06:50 PM)

Ok, so you're not impressed.

CJ says: (11:06:55 PM)

heheh - i recorded my program so I could chat with you.

CJ says: (11:07:11 PM)

and i think it will be hilarious, but already I'm mentally editing certain statements of mine

Cathy says: (11:07:20 PM)

OH STOP

Cathy says: (11:07:23 PM)

You're such a woman

CJ says: (11:07:25 PM)

LOL

Cathy says: (11:07:36 PM)

I am now taking out all references to other people.

Cathy says: (11:07:42 PM)

And certain illegal activities.

Cathy says: (11:07:48 PM)

In short, all the good stuff.

CJ says: (11:07:52 PM)

there aren't any, are there? oh .. how much are you copying?????

Cathy says: (11:07:57 PM)

None yet.

Cathy says: (11:08:04 PM)

Gonna wait until we're done.

CJ says: (11:08:18 PM)

well. I trust you I guess.

Cathy says: (11:08:23 PM)

Really?

Cathy says: (11:08:25 PM)

Muahahahahah

CJ says: (11:08:26 PM)

Yea.

Cathy says: (11:08:32 PM)

Even though I have no eyelids?

Cathy says: (11:08:38 PM)

And my fat calves are hairy?

CJ says: (11:08:41 PM)

And even if i'm embarrassed - it'll be funny, that i know

CJ says: (11:09:08 PM)

if you can put up with my sticky-up toe and belly, i can put up with your eyelid deficit

CJ says: (11:09:18 PM)

and calves

Cathy says: (11:09:35 PM)

Oh. I gotta go.. Two boys are dying to be put to bed.

CJ says: (11:09:49 PM)

Alrighty, this was FUN :)

Cathy says: (11:10:02 PM)

It WAS. Let's do it again when you're taping something on TV!

CJ says: (11:10:19 PM)

LOL - or any other time! just be at my beck and call.

Cathy says: (11:10:33 PM)

OK.. g'night!

Cathy says: (11:10:38 PM)

Thanks!

CJ says: (11:10:38 PM)

sleep tight

Cathy says: (11:10:44 PM)

Don't let the bed bugs bite.

CJ says: (11:10:45 PM)

thank YOU

CJ says: (11:10:50 PM)

ticks

#fridayflash - Stinky's New Buick

STINKY WAS ONE of those old men who wore old men’s hats and drove Detroit land yachts really, really slow.

“Fu-fu-fu-fuck you,” he’d say, thrusting his gamey middle finger at all the impatient assholes who’d blow by him at the first opportunity. “Everybah-bah-bady’s in such a b-b-big fah-fah-fah-freakin’ hurry all the ti-ti-ti-time.”

Stinky was in no hurry. He had all the time in the world. He was “RETIRED” as the sticker on the back bumper of his Buick proudly proclaimed.

Retired and loving it.

Ronald J. Stinkmeyer had put 47 years in at the General Motors plant in Oshawa. “For-for-for-ty se-se-se-seven years,” he’d tell Melba, the plump hard-faced woman who sold lotto tickets at the corner store. Like he’d never told her before, even though he went to the store to buy Nevada tickets and smokes every day. “Never mi-mi-missed a gaw-gaw-gadamned d-d-d-day.” Melba nodded and listened like she did for every retired working stiff who came through the door of the Lucky Lady Smoke ‘n Gift Shoppe. There was a whole string of old coots just like Stinky, although none of the others stuttered.

She didn’t care much that Stinky didn’t talk right. She never made fun of people because she didn’t like to be made fun of. And Stink was all right. He just liked to shoot the shit, like the rest of them. The only time she thought she was gonna lose it was when Stink came in and asked for a Country Tyme lemonade. After several embarrassing seconds of listening to Stink humiliate himself, Melba reached into the cooler and pulled out a can of what he was looking for.

“How’s the Buick doin, Stinky?” Melba asked.

“Oh, she’s d-d-doing pre-t-t-t-t-t-ty g-g-g-g-good, M-m-melba,” Stink said.

“That’s a sweet ride you got there,” she said, leaning on the counter and looking out the dusty window at the shiny crystal blue loaded-to-the-ever-loving-eyeballs 2010 Buick Regal out in the handicapped spot in the parking lot.

“Yu-yu-yup, thanks,” Stink said, grinning wide. “She’s a th-th-thing of b-b-beauty.”

Even though he’d been on the line at GM practically since Henry Ford invented the automobile, Stink had never had a new car.

He could have. Many times over, if he wanted to go into debt. But he didn’t want to. So he saved his money, and he drove old beaters that he fixed up until they puddled in his driveway in a mound of iron dust, and he dreamed of the day he could buy himself a new honest-to-god Buick.

And when he retired, and he got all his bills paid for and his finances straightened out he went into town and picked out the best Buick on the lot, loaded for bear with leather and a GPS and five coffee cup holders, plus a jack for an iPod, whatever the hell that was.

Stinky couldn’t have been any prouder. Not having a wife or kids or even any hobbies to speak of, except maybe some hunting and fishing, Stink didn’t have a lot else to show for his 66 years on the planet. Just his shack on the river, his aluminum boat with an Evinrude 4 hp motor on the back he’d bought when he was in his 20s, and his 2010 Buick Regal.

“How many coats of wax you got on that car now, Stink?” Melba asked.

“For-for-for-fourteen,” he said.

“Think that’s enough?” she teased.

“Ayuh,” he said, smiling. “M-m-maybe.”

Stink had a problem, though. He asked Melba if she knew anything about robins.

“I know I’m happy to see them in the springtime,” she said.

“W-w-well, I’m n-n-n-not. They’re ca-ca-ca-crapping on my Bu-bu-buick, those r-r-red-b-b-b-breasted shithawks.”

He told her he’d seen them perching on the sport mirrors of the Buick, fluttering and singing and carrying on, and crapping, all down both sides of the car.

“I’ve heard of that happening, Stink. They think there’s another robin in the mirror. And you got such nice new shiny mirrors, I think maybe they’re thinking they got a new beau. It is springtime, Stinky, time for the birds and the bees and love.”

She winked at him.

“Bah,” he waved her off.

As he was leaving she called after him, “Try wrapping the mirrors with plastic garbage bags. They’ll block the mirror and the rustling plastic might help keep the robins away.”

Stinky thought that was a pretty good idea. He tried it that very day. Unfortunately it was windy in his neck of the woods and he’d no sooner tie the bags on then they’d blow off again.

He sat on his front porch and smoked and watched the robins crapping on his shiny new Buick.

The more he watched, the more pissed off he got.

One Sunday morning, when he was nursing a spectacularly vicious hangover and he was feeling a little blurrier than usual, Stink finally lost it.

“Da-da-damned old pigeons,” he said and went to his bedroom to get a toy gun that shot plastic pellets.

“Ta-ta-take that you f-f-f-feathered bastards!” he shouted and fired plastic pellets at the birds. The birds didn’t even blink. The plastic gun didn’t have enough range to come close to the birds. So Stinky got up and got closer, but the minute he did, the robins flew off.

When he went back to the porch and sat down, the robins returned.

One looked in his direction and then unleashed a long runny stream of bird shit down the side of the Buick.

“God-d-d-d-d-amnit!” Stink hollered. He stomped back to the bedroom, unlocked his gun cabinet and pulled his deer rifle out. He loaded up the .303 with six bullets and stomped back out to the porch.

“Take th-th-that!” he yelled, pointing the gun and firing.

He had meant to shoot just above the bird, scare it off.

Maybe wing it.

But he was a little blurry that Sunday morning.

The hangover had maybe affected his aim.

Or maybe it was because he hadn’t sighted in his gun since hunting season last fall.

He hadn’t meant the bullet to swing wide.

But that’s where it went.

Stinky’s mouth dropped open as the first new car he had ever had in his life, the one he scrimped and saved for, blew up in the biggest motherfucking fireball he had ever laid eyes on.

The robin, his tail feathers only slighty singed, flew up to the safety of a nearby pine tree and had a very satisfying crap.

Paint

I'm nesting.
Or something.
Painted the bedroom last night. Well, gave it one coat. Tonight will be coat two. By the looks of it, Thursday might be coat three.
That's what happens when you paint child-poo brown over eye-burning white.

Not to worry, though, fellow Muskoka writer-chicks.
I will be coming to my inaugural meeting of the Muskoka writer-chicks. Can hardly wait.
Am nervous, though.
Not sure I'll bring anything tonight. Just want to scope you out. See how hot and heavy the criticism gets. See how Paula's tea is. See if there's any biscuits. See if there's any good gossip.
Who's kidding who... women? writers? Gossip is a given.
And who's kidding who... me? writer? poser? We'll see.

My master plan is thus: I will start painting coat two of child-poo brown before meeting, then dash off, leaving the other human in this household to finish the job.
Then I will flatter him.
Muahahahaha....

#fridayflash - Forty Minutes

CATHY KNOCKED on the door, cleared her throat and adjusted the camera bag slung over her shoulder.

“Mr. Bennett?” she called out.

Maybe he wasn’t here.

She looked around. No vehicle in the driveway, other than her car.

Maybe he had stood her up.

She had driven 40 minutes for this assignment; 40 minutes of rough twisty-turny cottage roads; 40 minutes straight to the capital of the middle of nowhere.

It was November and nobody was up at Kennisis Lake in November. The municipality didn’t do winter maintenance on this road and so once the snow started to fly only snowmobilers and die-hard survivalists stuck around.

“Ah, shit,” Cathy said, and turned to leave.

She almost made it to her car when the front door to the ramshackle cottage opened and a voice she assumed belonged to poet laureate Ansel Bennett said, “Ya? Whaddya want?”

Cathy turned around.

“I’m Cathy Earnshaw. From the News? I talked to you on the phone this morning. We had an appointment. I’m writing a story about your award.”

There was silence.

She couldn’t see him, just a crack of darkness in the doorway.

“Mr. Bennett,” she said, “do you want to do this interview or not?”

A white hand thrust into the afternoon light and waved her in.

“Fine,” she said, under her breath, between her teeth.

She pasted on her plastic reporter’s smile and went in.

It took her about a second to realize that the subject of her interview was stinking drunk.

“Come in,” the frog-belly pale old poet said, his words slurring. “Sit there.” He gestured to a couch, rattier than the hand-me-down Cathy had in her own apartment. It was covered in newspapers and books. She realized that paper covered every surface of the cottage, paper and empty glasses and the stench of liquor and cigarettes and old man.

“Maybe now’s not a good time for this,” Cathy said.

She certainly couldn’t interview him when he was shit-faced.

“Nonsense,” said the poet. “It’s a perfect time. Sit down, SIT DOWN. You mean to say you drove all the way out here for nothing?”

He stared at her stupidly, weaving slightly. “I’m not going to bite,” he said. “Just sit down. K? Sit down.”

She was almost convinced but her inner voice, her worry-wart voice, wasn’t.

“Mr. Bennett,” she said. “I can’t interview you when you’ve been drinking. We’ll have to reschedule.”

He looked confused.

“Drinking? I’m all out... but if you wait, there’s more coming soon... whiskey... you can have all you want.”

“No, Mr. Bennett, I don’t want a drink. I think I should go.”

“Wait,” he said.“Wait. Don’t go. I’m alone, here. Always alone. Stay. We don’t have to do the interview,” he said. “We could do ... other things.”

Cathy blinked.

“Come here. I won’t hurt you. I just want to taste you.”

“No,” she said, backing up.

“Taste you. Lick you. There. It's been so long,” he said. Moving towards her. White hands reaching out, touching the hem of her skirt, yanking it.

“NO, Mr. Bennett. NO.” She backed into the wall and reached awkwardly for the door.

He was pulling at her skirt, breathing sickly boozy fumes all over her. She felt nauseous. Then terrified when she realized just how far from town she really was.

“You sick, twisted, dirty, BASTARD,” she said, and she pushed him, pushed him as hard as she could. His foul breath escaped him in a solid “wooosh” and he almost lost his balance, almost fell, but he was determined, his hands reaching for her like claws.

She batted him away, pulled open the door and ran into the yard, the prize-winning poet laureate staggering behind her.

Cathy stopped in her tracks, watching as a Village Taxi cab pulled up the driveway.

The cabbie saw her red face, her dishevelled clothing and wild hair. He saw the lecherous old drunk weaving and swaying on the lawn.

“Afternoon, Ansel,” he said. “Got the whiskey you ordered.”

The old man’s shoulders sagged.

Cathy got in her car and drove away.

As the old poet and the cabbie disappeared in her rear view mirror, she started to shake.

In cottage country, you don’t need a vehicle to get what you need.

Village Taxi delivers everything.

A bag of groceries.

A bottle of whiskey.

Salvation.

Sigh

You ever have one of those days?

The Moose Illuminator

I HAD AN idea today.
The government has all kinds of make-work projects to stimulate the economy – why not introduce a program to tag moose with reflectors?
I mean, we tag animals for scientific research anyway. Why not make them glow-in-the-dark tags? And instead of tagging their ears, tag their tails.
That way, when you're travelling in the middle of the night you will see the sign on the moose's butt and slow down or stop or move over accordingly.
A friend suggested we call the tags "moose illuminators."
And I even know what the illuminators could say:
If you can read this, you are following too close.

Photo of cheeky moose: Rob Learn


Note: This post was longer but I edited it tonight because I really don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. If I did, I apologize.

Post 98

In 98 posts I have used up a lot of words.

In 98 posts I discovered one computer wasn't enough.

In 98 posts I visited with a lot of folks.

In 98 posts, the Muskoka River overflowed its banks and carried me in its wake to tremulous and exotic ports of call.

Can the world change in 98 posts?

Mine did.

One of the folks I've had the good fortune to come to know in 98 posts is Lou Freshwater over at Baby's Black Balloon. Lou is a tremendous intellectual who writes with a deft common touch. I admire her work immensely. In #fridayflash circles, Lou is respected by writers of every ilk, and for good reason.

I am just beside myself that she offered me a chance to write something for her blog, a guest post. Thrilled doesn't even come close to describing how, well, thrilled I am. Thank you, Lou, for the honour, and for your kind comments and your encouragement.

Some day I hope I can do something wonderful for you.

In the meantime, see what I'm so excited about.

The story is called Gone and you can find it at Lou's Place.

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner

Oh god.

She's coming to dinner?

Can we afford this?

I'm not talking about the steaks and the wine, I'm talking about replacing the picture frame in the hallway.

The picture frame. The one with your family photo in it?

I know, it was cheap, but what a mess. Shards of broken glass everywhere. How the heck did she break it anyway?

Reaching for the light switch? Huh?

Oh, the hall light was out. She was just waving her hand around looking for the bathroom light. I get it. What a spaz.

So then I go see what the fuss is about and she's standing in the hallway, holding a chunk of glass, in the dark, laughing her head off.

Laughing! She just broke our family photo and she's standing there laughing!

No, no, wait, it gets better.

She goes in the bathroom, cause she's got the runs... what? How do I know that? Cause I went in the bathroom after her and it was like somebody crawled up her a-hole and died up there. Holy hell, did it stink.

What?

Oh, yeah, so she goes in the bathroom cause she has diarrhea, and she's laughing in there. Laughing her head off! And crapping! And laughing! I could hear the noises, the watery splashing noises. And her laughing so hard she was wheezing or something, like Snidely Whiplash, wheezing and crapping and laughing.

She's not wired up right, I tell you.

Just a few weeks ago she was at someone else's house and she went into the bathroom (I don't know why she has to go into other people's bathrooms... no, I don't know if she stunk it up. No, I won't ask...) and she came out a few minutes later with a potlight in her hand!

"Er," she sez, "I broke this."

A potlight! All she had to do was pee, and she broke the bathroom light!

No, no, stop laughing, it gets even freaking worse.

The time before she was at that house, she broke the dining room chair. Her fat arse plumped itself in the chair and one of the arms fell right off it! So she kinda stuck it back on and grinned like a dope, and the arm promptly fell off again.

Her own mother has the best story of all, though.

When she was in college she came home for Thanksgiving weekend and the first thing she did when she walked in the house was rush over to the stove where four homebaked pies were cooling.

Somebody recalls her yelling "PIES!" and then the next thing you know she was sticking her baby finger in one of the pumpkin pies and then it was ON the FLOOR! Pumpkin pie, all over the freaking floor, and there she stood, broken glass and pumpkin all over the freshly washed kitchen floor, two minutes in the door, two minutes, and the place looked like somebody stuck a grenade in a pumpkin.

Chaos, I'm telling ya, chaos!

Can we really afford to have her over for dinner?

We're not having pie, are we?

This post is dedicated to Sam, who spilled an entire glass of milk on the floor Friday morning and then an entire mug of coffee not more than half an hour later. Isn't it adorable that he takes after his mommy?

Happy and I Know It

Hey Laurita - bet you thought I was never going to get around to this.

I was... eventually... I'm not the quickest runner off the mark with anything but like a big, slow boat I eventually make the turn and face the direction I need to go.

Just gotta say how pleased I was to see my name on your list for this sweet little cupcake of an award. Hey, and I'm loving what you're doing with that seafaring contest over yonder on that happy blog of yours. For those who want to join the fun, one of Newfoundland's most famous bloggists (the other is Alan Davidson, of course) is hosting a two-sided contest. For the writers amongst us, concoct a 500 word story involving the sea. For the readers, merely use the word 'yarn' in any comment on any of Laurita's blog posts in the next few weeks. Go to Brain Droppings blog for all the details. While you're there, read the poem her Dad wrote. And read some of her stories. She is a wonderful writer.

OK enough butt-kissing.

Laurita wants to know 10 things that make me happy. So here goes:

1. This community of writers I have recently discovered makes me happy. Deliriously so. They/you occupy my thoughts and my days and continually inspire me. Because of you, I am joining a local writers' group and will be taking part in the Muskoka Novel Marathon, something that scares the very crap out of me but, what the heck. (More on that later.)

2. Planning my wedding makes me happy. I ordered my wedding dress last week. Online, no less. But I figure since I met Dave online, it only makes sense to get the dress there, too. Go here if you want to check it out. (But don't show Dave, k?) And I've got a great wedding photographer booked. Erin is amazing. Check out her Trash the Dress photos. Dave has ordered his suit, the church is booked, my cousin Mandy will be doing the flowers because she is AWESOME and my friend Leah will be doing the cake because she, too, is AWESOME. Most awesome of all, my friend Vic will be doing much of the service. Vic is going to be studying to become a lay minister with the United Church and she is funny as hell so I am looking forward to what she has to say. I told her I want it to be like a eulogy, only without us dead. The Raneys, Tammy and Richard, are standing up for us (little sweethearts they are) and our children will form the rest of the bridal party... Angus and Sam, our kids, and Emily and Megan, theirs. Oh, we're getting married Sept. 25 in Bracebridge. Y'all are invited, hear?

3. Coffee makes me happy. Even though Sam spilled an entire mug of it on me just minutes ago.

4. My treadmill makes me happy. I used to hate exercise. Still do. But with the treadmill, I. AM. AN. ATHLETE.

5. My job makes me happy. Most days. When it doesn't, I hate it with a passion.

6. Mexican taco dip makes me happy. With diet pepsi and lots of ice. Popcorn also makes me happy. As does cheesecake, oh, I almost forgot cheesecake.

7. Fishing makes me happy, as long as I don't have to touch the fish, or eat the fish, or touch the bait.

8. Camping. Oh, how I love camping. We were going to go somewhere corny like Niagara Falls for our honeymoon but we decided to go camping instead. Last Thanksgiving our whole family got together on a trip, cooked the turkey outdoors, the whole nine yards. Canoeing also makes me happy. I am a northern girl.

9. My family makes me happy. Dave is a hunk of burning love. My kids like me most days. You know, when I'm not torturing them.

10. My life makes me happy. I am loving it right now. This year I turn 50 and I am as happy now as I have ever been. You get to this stage in life and you like who you are and what you're doing and you don't give a shit what anyone thinks about it. I am becoming Maxine, that greeting card grump, and I am happy about that.

11. I'm adding an extra number here just to say that MY MOM makes me happier than anybody in the whole darn world! She is the bestest mother ever and I don't know what I'd do without her. Loves ya, babe!

I would like to see makes these people happy:

Mark Champion Man Island

CJ Hodges-MacFarlane Mostly Other Things

Lou Freshwater Baby's Black Balloon

Lynda at Much Ado About Anything

Deb at My Great White North

Mark Kerstetter The Bricoleur

Allan Davidson Conversations From Land's Edge

I would like to add Anton Gully to this list because he hates any kind of award and he's always so damn grumpy I'd like to know if anything at all makes this man happy.

#fridayflash - Snow In The Bush

Warm out.

Late afternoon. 26 degrees.

Too warm for the end of March.

“In like a lamb. Out like a lamb,” says the wistful Laila, gliding through the bush. The sunshine sets her swirl of white skirt to cotton flame and she glows as she steps lightly over the brown powdery leaf litter carpeting last autumn’s forest floor.

Spring’s earthy taste, a pinot gris, light as pale lemon, lingers sweet on Laila as she walks through the forest.

A fine dew draws upon her brow and her upper lip.

“Too warm,” she sighs.

Golden sunlight paints her daffodil hair, warms her apricot cheeks, lights the fine hairs of her bare arms like filaments.

The snow in the bush is white fire amidst the brown.

It is untouched. Pristine. White diamonds sparkle on its melting crust.

“Ah,” Laila whispers.

She lays down in the snow and closes her eyes.

The cool white is cold fire on her back.

The warm sun is snug fire on her front.

She opens her china eyes and watches clouds puff across a canvas of cornflower.

She watches the sky until the sun sets and the nasal call of a nighthawk wakes her from her unconscious duality.

When she gets up to go, the outline of her body is melted into what is left of winter’s snow.

“Winter is dead,” says the wise Laila, gliding through forest as sacred as home.

Her skirt shines in the moonlight.