Friday Girls

Swishing skirts, high heels and Cadillac-bound,

It's the Friday girls, the Friday girls, the Friday girls.

When I was trying to come up a name for my short story collection I just fell in love with "Friday Girls." The very idea conjured up images of kick-ass women, confident in their abilities but all too human, kicking up their high heels and heading brashly into the weekend. But the name was also practical. Most of the stories were, after all, written about "girls" of all ages, and most were written for #FridayFlash, the Internet meme that transformed me from a journalist who wrote just-the-facts-ma'am into a bonafide fiction writer.

If you've never heard of #FridayFlash, let me quickly explain. It's the brainchild of Jon M. Strother who came up with the idea of writers, from all over the world, concocting a story of 1,000 words or less and posting it on their blogs every Friday. These stories were tweeted and Facebooked with the hashtag #FridayFlash, which enabled other writers (and readers) to find the stories, comment on them, share them and give positive feedback – thus boosting the confidence and visibility of the writers.

I have bloggy friend CJ Hodges MacFarlane to thank for turning me onto #FridayFlash, something I immediately fell head over heels with. There was such a rush in seeing what other people said about my stories. And there was such immense satisfaction in sitting down in front of a computer screen, with little more than an idea, and coming up with a real live story. Usually I had no idea what I was going to write until I started writing and it always amazed the heck out of me when a story turned out right.

Plus, I met the most amazing people. People who were just like me – struggling writers with the self-confidence of fleas. We shared the same dreams, the same goals and the same fervour to get those stories written, week after week.

I wrote a story the week before my wedding. I wrote one on my honeymoon. I wrote when I was crazy busy, and I wrote when I was ill. Bloggy friend Alan W. Davidson said I was "addicted" to #FridayFlash and he was absolutely right.

As my confidence increased I turned my attention to my novel, Green Eggs & Weezie, and, for the most part, left #FridayFlash behind. But I never stopped thinking about my "Friday girls" and I tried not to lose touch with the writing community that changed my life.

I'd like to thank Paula Boon for editing my stories, and Lou Freshwater and Jon Strother for providing introductions, as well as Steven Novak for the beautiful cover. Mostly I want to thank the writers of #FridayFlash who liked, or at least pretended to like (!) the stories that took a little bit out of my heart.

I think you'll like these stories. I'm hoping they make you smile, or make you cry, or at least make you think. These are my girls, the daughters I never had, my friends, my relatives, and they're as special to me as the women in my real life.

Starting tomorrow, for five days, Friday Girls will be free to download on Amazon. I'm working on getting the paperback version together (as well as writing a new novel during Nanowrimo, gawd help me) and should have that together in the coming days. (That one won't be free, however!)

Would anyone care to post a blurb about Friday Girls on their blogs? Doesn't have to be a big deal. Just a blurb that it's out there and it's free for five days. And if you read the book, and you like it, I'd sincerely appreciate a review on Goodreads and Amazon. It's a jungle out there in book publishing land and you really need the help of your friends to get a book launched. I hope I'm not too big a pain in your butts but please know you are soooooo appreciated.

E-mail me if you need cover art or a blurb or a link or money. Oops, sorry, don't have money. I'm a writer, remember?

Welcome to Friday Flash, Dawn!

I'm so happy right now!

I've been telling the women in my writer's group about FridayFlash.org for YEARS. What an awesome support group it is, how it has improved my writing and changed my life ... yada, yada.

Finally, one of those wonderfully talented writers has written a flash!!! WOOT!!!!!!!!

Not only has she written one, she has written a DAMNED FINE one!

Please drop by Dawn Huddlestone's blog, Being Deliberate, and read her story, A Spoonful of Sugar. You won't be sorry. I promise, you won't. It's a thing of true beauty.

Welcome to Friday Flash, Dawn!

Now, pass the cake and champagne!

(So many exclamation points, so little time....)

Well worth the snip!

First of all, I have a rant posted over at Fridayflash.org, in which I whinge about the robot-thingeys that unknowingly plague many Blogger bloggers. You may have these annoying "prove you're not a robot" thingeys on your blog and not even know it! Click here and find out.

***

My turn in front of the room -
awesome and embarrassing all at the same wonderful time!

I’m feeling real sorry for all you men out there right now because, no matter what you do, you will never be nominated for a YWCA Women of Distinction Award. Well, OK, so there are operations that can get the job done, a nip here and a tuck there but you have to ask yourself this, as the surgeon hovers overhead with scissors the size of garden shears, if it’s worth it.

Hell yes!

It’s the best! The best, best, best thing you can possibly do! I know because I was nominated this year and I highly recommend the experience to everyone. Do you have a mother or an aunt or a sister or a colleague who goes beyond the call of duty? Maybe she volunteers, or she mentors other women, or she’s successful in business. If you know a woman who works tirelessly to make this world a better place, in one way or another, you really should nominate them for next year’s awards.

Why? Because they treat you like a queen. I have never been so feted or felt so special in my entire life. This was an incredible event, something I will never forget – until my menopausal fugue gets worse then I’ll forget everything ... sorry, what was I talking about?

Oh yes, the YWCA awards.

What a ride. What a trip. What a fabulous night.

My nominator and work friend, Gail Knaus, me, and Pamela Steel,
a board member with the YWCA and a very good friend as well.

When I found out two of my work friends, Gail Knaus and Leah Burton, had nominated me for an award I thought they were as loonie and merrily menopausal as me. My first thought was that the YWCA was desperate for nominations and I was merely filling a quota. “Sure, I’ll do it,” I told them, thinking I would help out the poor YWCA in their bid to collect nominees.

Someone else at work asked me what I had done to deserve the award and, frankly, I didn’t have an answer. But when I asked Leah why she had nominated me, she said, “You make people laugh.” I smiled and I felt good about her answer. Maybe I’m not the most dedicated volunteer; maybe I haven’t done anything to bring about world peace; but making someone laugh or smile, well, that’s pretty good, too. 

Alison Brownlee, left, the lovely Huntsville Forester reporter,
with Pamela, at our table. Check out the beautiful room.
Doesn't it look beautifully festive?

When I arrived at the Mark O’Meara Ballroom in Huntsville for the big event I met the 24 other women nominated for awards. These were some of the most spectacular women in Muskoka, incredibly hard working and devoted to their various causes and, you know what? I didn’t hear one of them say they “deserved” to be there. Every single woman I talked to downplayed their achievements, honestly believing they didn’t really deserve the recognition. I thought, either women are the most modest people on earth, or we have no idea of our worth.

Thankfully the organizers of this event recognized this about our silly selves and went about making us feel as special as possible.

First of all, the Mark O’Meara Ballroom – wow. I’d never been there before and all I can say is – wow. What a beautiful place. And the food? Amazing. No kidding. It was gourmet with a capital ‘G’. I had this date wrapped up in bacon (the fruit date, not the Saturday night kind of date) and it was a lil ole bite of heaven. (Any food wrapped in bacon makes me feel like Paula Deen.) And the cheesecake? Seriously, the best cheesecake ever. 

Ev-ahhh.

As soon as we arrived we were pinned with a pretty corsage posy, introduced to other nominees, had our photos taken by the paparazzi like we were all Paris Hilton, minus the wee dogs, hot gossip and hotel chain. We were congratulated and warmly welcomed by everyone from the YWCA, who shook our hands and wished us well and treated us like we were important. It was an unbelievable feeling! Believe it or not I’m a bit of a wallflower and having so many people being so nice to me (and all the other nominees) just bowled me over. Their niceness was so very, very ... um, nice.

When it came time for the awards ceremony, all nominees were asked to come to the front of the room. One by one we walked to the stage where the mistress of ceremonies said the most wonderful things about us. It was stunning, having someone point out your accomplishments. We’re all so used to being put down all the time. I have to tell you, it’s magic when someone points out the good. I promise to try to do more of this every day.

After the night was over, that unbelievably fantastic night, people wanted to know if I had won. “No,” I told them, “of course not!” And seriously, I had no hope that I would. The women who did win the awards were amazing; I mean, at a Mother Teresa-Indira Ghandi-Joan of Arc-Paula Deen level of amazing. (Sorry, still thinking about those bacon date thingeys.) But you know what? It didn’t matter who won and who didn’t. We were all treated like winners.

If you know anyone, and I mean anyone, who you think is worthy of a nomination, I highly recommend that you nominate them for next year’s awards. They will be treated like royalty and you will feel like a million bucks for helping them to feel that way.

Kudos to the YWCA for such an outstanding event. Truly, you are all women of distinction.

Here are the other wonderful nominees: Jasmine Arney, Heather Berg, Glad Bryce, Karen Bullock, Laurie Campbell, Nancy Cox-Godfrey, Brenda Cunningham-Moran, Wendy Dingman, Chris Gefucia, Holly Goldthorp, Fran Gower, Kim Jackson, Tara Kinden, D'Arcy Kirkwood, Laurie Lamont, Kelly McBride, Katy McGregor, Shelly Raymond, Marnee Reid, Jennifer Schnier, Martina Schroer, Marguerite Urban, Brenda Wainman Goulet and Jo Walton. Congratulations ladies!

The nominees pose for a group photo... after this picture was taken we had to reshoot because two were stuck in line in the washroom and missed out! Can you imagine a ballroom mostly full with women? There was a lonnnnnnnng line-up in the ladies room! We were thinking about taking over the mens room but were too polite!

Carrie Clevenger's new book sizzles

Book Review:

Crooked Fang by Carrie Clevenger

I’ve always had a thing for Carrie Clevenger’s writing, not gonna lie, so I was a little prejudiced going into the reading of Crooked Fang, her new novel about a sexy, bass-playing vampire. I knew it was going to be well-written. I knew it was going to be tight and smart and edgy, just like her short stories that have been dazzling me since I got on board with the Friday Flash crew a couple years back. I knew I was going to like it.

I just didn’t know how much.

There were a few scenes in Crooked Fang that absolutely set me back on my heels, scenes of such crystalline, short-leashed violence, such visceral power, that I felt my blood pressure rising and my breath catch in my throat. That doesn’t happen often with me and, when it does, I can’t help but shake my head in jealous admiration and say, “damn, that’s some good writing."

For the most part, vampire Xan Marcelles ambles his hunky, long-haired form through the book, playing bass with his bandmates Crooked Fang at the Pale Rider, a bar in the rugged, spruce-scented hills and valleys of Colorado. I love the setting – reminds me of Muskoka, the woodsy place I call home, plus it’s fresh, outdoorsy and blue-skied, not like the dank dark depressing places most vampires hang out in.

Xan’s perfectly happy dallying around with music, whiskey, cigarettes and the occasional red-blooded woman, but he’s forced out of his comfort zone by a murderous wraith, a wanna-be vampire slayer, a devastating fire and crushing news about a lost love.

The novel moves along lickety-split but the action crackles as the page width on the right hand side of the tome gets skinnier, and the last few chapters are rollercoasters where Carrie’s mad writing skills are most evident.

To be honest, I don’t seek out vampire stories. I only read Crooked Fang because I know what Carrie is capable of and yes, I loved it. It was a fast, fun read with some really spectacular, Stephen King-like moments. Xan Marcelles is a memorable, original character, likeable despite his propensity for blood, and I’m glad to hear Carrie is working on a sequel. I'll buy it in a heartbeat.

I would like to take this opportunity to say, however, that I’m hoping she tackles something more literary in the future. She has such a gift for writing that I could easily see her penning a work that could have lasting impact on American literature. Carrie Clevenger has that kind of talent and she’s young enough and new enough into the game that she has a chance to really make a name for herself.

In the meantime, she has what could be a highly successful franchise on her hands. Crooked Fang would be a terrific film and I can see any actor playing Xan Marcelles being a bigger hearthrob than Robert Pattinson. He’s older, he’s bigger, he’s tougher and he’s got better hair.

Something to hang onto as he nibbles your neck, if you know what I mean ...

Carrie Clevenger is a writer
living in Texas, where
everything is apparently big,
including writing talent.

50 Shades of Good Writing

Imagine my excitement when Jon Strother, THE Jon Strother, the King of Friday Flash Jon Strother, asked lil old me to be a regular correspondent with Friday Flash Dot Org!

In case you've never heard of Friday Flash, it's a phenomenon Jon founded to encourage and promote flash fiction writing. The deal is you write a story 1,000 words or less, you post it on your blog, you link it to the Friday Flash website and you promote it on Facebook and Twitter. Then you go around to all the other writers and read their flashes. The upshot of it is, you hone your own skills as a writer, you gain confidence and feedback from an incredibly supportive community and you make new friends. Some of my best blogging buddies come from Friday Flash. I can't recommend it enough.

When I was thick into Friday Flash I wrote a story every week for about a year. I almost never missed a deadline, coming up with stories the week I got married and all through my honeymoon. Writing flash became a need, an addiction and as time passed and my fingers flew across the keyboard I started to think that maybe, just maybe, I was a real writer after all.

I haven't written a Friday Flash for some time but that doesn't mean I'm not writing. I am, in fact, three-quarters done writing a novel, something I wouldn't have thought of doing in a million, zillion years if it wasn't for Jon Strother and Friday Flash.

This summer I'm all wound up about the publication of The Best of Friday Flash Volume 2, in which not one but TWO of my stories will be included. And it's not just an e-book, it's an ACTUAL, physical book! Everybody on my Christmas list will be getting at least one in their stockings! When launch day comes I'll be sure to let you know about it. (Just try and stop me!)

In the meantime, if you want to check out my first post over at Friday Flash Dot Org, I have a piece about 50 Shades of Grey as it applies to so-called "good writing." If you're in the mood for some self-important blathering, you'll find my pearls here. And if you're looking for some fabulous writing from some really swell people, click here.

Mark Kerstetter – Letter from a Friend

My dad used to call me Albert A, a nod to Mr. Einstein. It wasn't a compliment. Usually he dissed me with the name at suppertime when we were arguing about politics and I was being a smartass know-it-all. Lately I've realized I'm not that smart. Well, not intellectually. I've got enough smarts to do what I've gotta do but a scholar, I ain't.

Geez, that Mark Kerstetter, though. He's one of the smartest people I know. He's so into the process of learning, of expressing himself, of thinking – man, it's just incredible. I lurk at his blog, The Bricoleur. I used to comment and I still do occasionally but I have to say most of what he talks about is miles over my silly head. I feel like he is a Great Master and I'm this dopey cocker spaniel dancing around his heels.

He would argue with me about this because he is truly one of the most modest, genuine people I've ever come across. While I had an easy time of it growing up in a wonderful family, he struggled. I was spoiled. He spent time on the streets. My brain stopped filling up the minute I walked away from college. Mark's has continued to grow and expand in the most exciting ways – to the point where he is one of the most respected artists, poets and art writers on the web. He has a devoted following of the like-minded at his blogs, The Bricoleur and Fridge Soup, and the popular web-zine he's strongly involved in, Escape Into Life.

I met up with Mark through Friday Flash, that fantastic community of writers who post a short story, of 1,000 words or less (flash fiction, they call it), every Friday. Anyone can do it. Beginning writers. Experienced writers. Anybody who feels the urge to tell a story. The best thing about it is everyone is SO supportive. You write, you post, you read other people's work, they read yours, you get and give encouragement, you become a better writer. I encourage everyone who visits this blog to give it a try. If it wasn't for Friday Flash, I wouldn't be writing a novel. I wouldn't have written 50 or more short stories. And I surely wouldn't have come across Mark Kerstetter.

You know? The best thing about Mark? He is the last person who would ever lord his smarts over anyone. He is so down to earth that even the earth must take an elevator to greet him. He is humble, and nice – really darned nice – and over the last few years he has become one of those small circle of bloggers who honestly feel like family.

bricolage |ˌbrēkōˈlä zh; ˌbrikə-|noun ( pl. same or -lages)(in art or literature) construction or creation from a diverse range of available things : the chaotic bricolage of the novel is brought together in a unifying gesture.• something constructed or created in this way : bricolages of painted junk.ORIGIN mid 20th cent.: French, from bricoler ‘do odd jobs, repair.’

bricoleur |ˌbrēkōˈlər; ˌbrikə-|nouna person who engages in bricolage.ORIGIN mid 20th cent.: French, literally ‘handyman.’

Dear Cathy,

I’m lucky to be counted among your internet friends. Especially since it’s perhaps not easy to know me from my online presence. You show us life on the Muskoka River. We see Dave and the kids, the cabin, we learn about blackflies and yurts. People don’t see the bricoleur’s workshop so much as his finished products, my good face. But more than that, I’m different in conversation than in writing. I can be a lot funnier, for one thing.

Throughout the '70s and '80s the neighborhood I live in had the reputation as one of the worst in our city. When Victoria and I moved in the whole neighborhood was a shambles, with only a handful of people, like us, trying to build it back up. They were investors. We couldn’t afford anything better. They fixed up their houses and flipped them. We stayed. They had no investment long-term, no interest in doing the real dirty work. We did. Today it’s a good neighborhood, and I can honestly say that Victoria and I had a hand in making it so, with a whole lot of luck of course (we could not have predicted nice folks would want to move here).

It’s a porch culture. People often tell us they’ve never seen another neighborhood (even within the city) where neighbors say hello and offer each other glasses of wine on their porches. To give you some context: in the '80s all of the porches had been enclosed. The neighbors hid from each other. One of the first things we did was tear those walls down, open up the porch the way it was intended to be. Don’t get me wrong, I like it when people mind their own business, but I also want to know who my neighbors are, to be able to talk to them about important matters if necessary, to back them up and know they have my back. I feel safe in saying that if you and Dave lived next door we would love having you as neighbors, that is, unless you get into loud arguments late at night or allow trapped dogs to yap endlessly or set up a meth lab in your house – then we’d have to talk.

So, I really mean it when I call myself a bricoleur. It’s not just my art that’s made out of whatever is laying around. My whole life is like that. I fix up my house with salvaged wood. All our furniture came from alleys and dumpsters. The bike I ride was somebody’s reject (even the cap and jacket you see me wearing in the photo were giveaways). My whole life is about striking a balance between what I need, have to do and want. It’s about mastering minutes. This is the moment I have to write, this is the moment I have to work on the house, this is the moment I have to make money, this is a second for twitter…. and now a nap. I often think of how precarious life is and how good I have it. All my adult life I’ve been among the working poor, yet in the important ways I’m rich and I never forget that.

The main thing about me that you can’t see from my blogger face is Victoria. She’s my heart. I’d be worthless without her, no doubt about it. If you saw us together you would see it. I wouldn’t have to say a word.

Cheers, Cathy - Now go work on that book!

Your internet porch buddy,

Mark

Funeral Sandwiches - #fridayflash

"Was she really religious? I didn't think she was all that religious."

Cameron twisted her black leather gloves in her winter-dry hands.

"I don't know," said her husband, eyes focused on the road ahead. It was starting to snow again. He loosened his tie with one hand, other hand on the wheel. His wedding ring gleamed in the afternoon light. "Put this in your purse, will you?"

She reached over behind the seats and grabbed her purse. It was heavy with her pocket-change laden wallet, reading glasses, lipstick that she never wore, gum, bills, pay stubs and a handful of peppermints that had escaped from their container two months ago and were now accumulating lint coats. Lifting the heavy purse and heaving it over the seats was always a bit of a chore. It made her feel like her arm was being wrenched out of its socket. She always said to Tom, before she put the purse in the back seat at the beginning of any car travel, "Is there anything in my purse you might need?" And he always replied, "Why would I need anything in your purse?" Ten minutes later, without fail, he would ask for a stick of gum, or an aspirin, or he wanted to put something in the purse. Like his tie.

She grunted a bit more than was necessary but she wrestled the purse into her lap without complaint. She took the tie, rolled it up into a perfectly round, perfectly garish red, white and blue ball, and slipped it into her purse. His mother had given him that tie last Christmas. It was horrid. She thought about accidentally tossing it out the window.

"Anything else you need from the purse?" she asked. "Gum? Asprin? Antacid? Cigars? Cigarettes? Coffee, tea or me?"

"No thanks," said Tom.

She started to put her purse in the back seat.

"Oh wait," he said. "Maybe I will have a Tums. That salmon sandwich I had at the lunch might have been a bit off."

She handed him a couple of antacids, then closed her purse. "I had the egg salad. It was good. Nothing beats those little triangle-shaped sandwiches they serve at funerals. Did you try any of the squares? Those oatmeal-rice crisp things were phenomenal. I wish I had of asked for the recipe. I was going to, but didn't have enough nerve. It was good, though. Those ladies at Christ Church always put on a nice lunch."

She left the purse in her lap, just in case Tom changed his mind.

"Why don't you put your purse in the back seat? It'll be more comfortable for you than having that big thing sitting in your lap."

Cameron made a wry face. "It's fine. Besides, you might need it."

"I won't need it. Why would I need it?"

She sighed, then lifted her purse over her head and into the back seat, wrenching her arm again in the process.

Her lap was now free of everything but her hands and her gloves.

"Now isn't that better?" he asked, throwing a smile her way.

"Oh yes. Much." She rubbed her shoulder in the spot where it throbbed the most.

They drove in quiet for a few moments. When Cameron stopped thinking about her shoulder and her purse, she returned to thoughts of Aunt Opal and how religious her funeral was. She never remembered Opal talking about religion, or going to church. There were no portraits of Jesus hanging in her room at the Whispering Pines Retirement Villa. There were no crucifixes on the wall. And yet there were three ministers at the funeral – three. And all of them took a turn at the podium saying what a good Christian woman Opal was, and how she was ready to meet her maker and cry tears of joy in the arms of her Lord.

"The way those ministers carried on you'd think Aunt Opal was excited about dying," Cameron said. "That's not the impression I got from talking to cousin Karen. She was right there with Aunt Opal when she died and I asked her if she went peacefully and Karen said yes, at the very end. But the last week was hard because she was scared."

Tom said, "Well that's understandable. I'd be scared if I was dying."

"Me too. But we're heathens. We're not believers, the way those ministers said Aunt Opal was a believer. If I truly believed that I was going to heaven when I died, real heaven with pearly gates and a choir of angels and no pain, just love and happiness in a never-ending palm-treed paradise, I wouldn't be scared. I'd be excited. Hell, I'd be positively thrilled.

"Poor Aunt Opal," she said. "Even at 97 years old, she was scared of dying. I would have thought that maybe, when you get to that age, you're more accepting of the inevitable."

Tom kept his eyes on the road, but he reached over with his right hand and rubbed his wife's sore shoulder. "This the spot that hurts?" he asked.

She smiled. "Yes."

Tom rubbed her shoulder. "I don't think," he said, "we ever stop wanting to live. I don't think we ever stop being scared, either. No matter how old we are. The best we can hope for is finding something to believe in, like Aunt Opal did, or tried to do. That and getting funeral sandwiches that won't give your guests food poisoning. Speaking of which, do you think I could bug you for another Tums?"

Cameron turned to look at her husband's face. She could see he was trying not to smile but not completely succeeding. "They're in my purse," she said.

"Your purse? Not the purse in the back seat, surely?"

"That," she said, "would be it. And I'm not reaching for it. I don't care how much that salmon you ate is swimming upstream."

He laughed. "You don't have to get your purse. I was kidding."

"I know," said Cameron. "But I'll get them if you really want."

"Nah," said Tom. "I don't. Just promise me, though, that there won't be any tainted salmon sandwiches at my funeral. And I only want one minister – and not a highly religious minister, either. One of those heathen-style ministers. And one more thing."

He paused.

"What?" asked Cameron.

"Promise me you'll be there with me, holding my hand and loving me just exactly the way you do now. Because if you're there it doesn't matter if there's pearly gates, or a whole herd of ministers – if you're there, I don't have to be scared. You promise?"

"I promise," she said, although she could barely speak.

She kissed his aftershave-scented cheek, then leaned against his shoulder. The highway led on into the deepening twilight, snowflakes drawn to their headlights, with each mile a bit further from the funeral, a bit closer to their own mortality.

Splitting Hairs - #fridayflash

"I have broken my hair," said Ravina.

You can't break hair.

"Well, I did. It busticated. Right at ear level."

Pffft.

"Look at how puffy my hair is here," she said, pointing to the pouffy sections at the side of her head, "and look how thin my hair is here." She held up the limp and somewhat dispirited lank of brittled blondness.

That is odd, I have to say. You look rather like a yellow version of Bozo the Clown. What happened?

"My ponytail ate it."

Really.

"It was too tight. Broke the hair right off at the elastic band. Then it disappeared. The hair, not the band. Wasn't in the band. Wasn't in the bed. Wasn't in the shower or my hair brush. Just gone. Like the wind. Only Scarlett O'Hara didn't have a bald spot, did she."

I couldn't argue that point, although Scarlett did have an inordinate number of hair bows. Maybe she was hiding something.

"Doubt it. She wasn't hiding her cleavage. And her lack of acting talent was certainly on display."

Cleavage? Did someone say something about cleavage?

"Anyway. I look like a freak. I can't believe I broke my hair."

Krazy Glue? It works on broken china.

"I have actually Krazy Glued broken fingernails together," Ravina said thoughtfully. "I might actually consider trying that... you know, if the ponytail hadn't eaten the hair." D'oh, she added, under her breath.

Yes, well, I have my moments. I also have teeny-tiny razor sharp teeth. And bad gas. Heh-heh. Sorry.

"What was that?" Ravina asked, disgusted.

Hairball.

Valentines in the Snow - #fridayflash

Oh my goodness! That woman reeks, thinks Annie Breyer. She burrows her offended nose into her turtleneck sweater and tries not to think about the old lady standing next to her in the card aisle of the Bracebridge Rexall. 

Even through the fabric softener fresh scent of her handmade sweater Annie gets whiffs of sour wine and caesar salad. Yucky! The woman is right beside her, rifling through the For My Husband valentines. It’s exactly where Annie wants to be. There’s nobody in the whole aisle, nobody but her and the stinky lady, both crammed together looking at the same valentines.

Annie perseveres. This is her first Valentine’s Day as a married woman and she wants to get the mushiest card she possibly can. She’s so excited. The diamonds on her ring finger sparkle under the pharmacy’s fluorescent lights. She plucks another card from the rack, pushes her long blonde hair behind one ear and smiles broadly as she reads “To My Darling Husband,” in golden raised script, on a background of red roses and scarlet hearts. 

“Since I met you

I have fallen in love with you

a thousand times

in a thousand different ways.

As each day passes

I find a thousand new reasons

to fall in love with you all over again.

My husband, my heart, my love, my life.”

Annie presses the card against her chest, sighs happily and closes her eyes. It’s perfect, she breathes, perfect! And with that breath the sour smell of wine and garlic assaults her again and she giggles and glances at the old woman, who gives her a look as sour as her winey breath. 

“Sorry!” Annie blurts out and she lifts her shopping basket off the floor and hurries to the till. She’s got a bottle of Diet Pepsi, some of the toilet paper that’s on sale and a bendy-fresh package of strawberry licorice for Derek, the kind he likes best. And the valentine, of course. She digs through her coin purse for the $14.71 that the bored clerk requires of her. She says please and thank you and have a nice night, and she waltzes out the front door and into the purplish snowy dusk of a Thursday evening in February.

“Oh geez it’s cold!” she says out loud, shivering and fumbling through her purse, trying to find her keys. The wind gusts hard and she winces as she puts the key into the lock, throws open the driver’s door and tosses her stuff inside.

“Brrrrrrr!” she says, settling her self behind the wheel and praying her little Sunfire will decide to start. “Please, please, please, please,” she cajoles, the tip of her pink tongue poking out from between her cotton candy glossed lips. The car starts, but not without complaint, and Annie does up her seat belt and guides it through the parking lot and onto Manitoba Street.

It’s snowing hard and it’s everything Annie can do to see through the windshield. She putters up the big hill and decides to turn in at KFC. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the valentine on the passenger seat but she thinks it would be nice to splurge and pick up a bucket of chicken for Derek for supper. She is always trying to surprise him. It’s what drives her, this simple, guileless desire to make him as happy as he has made her.

She orders some chicken and his favourite macaroni salad and takes a seat to wait the 10 minutes or so the waitress says it will take to fry up a fresh batch. She unbuttons her pink coat and looks out the window as traffic fights its way through the storm.

A harried mother and three young boys come through the door in a flurry of stomping boots and blowing snow. The waitress takes her order as the boys scuffle and argue about what size the fries should be and what pop to buy. Annie watches them with a smile. She imagines what her and Derek’s children will look like. She wants four or five. Derek wants three. They talk ceaselessly about saving up for a bigger house and starting an education fund.

The wail of an ambulance stops the boys’ tussling. They go to the window, press their faces against the glass, and watch the lights of the paramedics’ vehicle light up the snowy night. The waitress and the mother watch silently. Annie does, too. It’s a small town and a rushing ambulance is a rare enough thing that everyone stops to watch.

Annie thinks immediately of Derek, hoping he is alright. He works in a body shop in Port Sydney, 15 minutes north. Not much of a drive, not normally, but it can be nasty on bad nights like this one. 

Annie feels worry creep over her. She immediately pictures Derek in the back of that ambulance, and a police cruiser in her driveway, with an officer waiting to tell her bad news. 

“You always think the worst.” This is her mother’s voice, in her head.

It’s true. She always does. If there’s a worst case scenario, Annie has no trouble imagining it. While she waits for the chicken her fear grows.

But then the three boys resume their roughhousing and their mom and the waitress strike up a conversation about the hockey game on TV tonight, and Annie lets the warmth of the restaurant and the smell of frying chicken melt her burgeoning panic.

It’s a winter wonderland out there, she thinks. Pedestrians with shopping bags, heads bent against the wind. Streetlights ringed with halos of falling snow. She relaxes. Her naturally buoyant happiness surfaces and by the time the waitress calls her over to pick up her order, she is smiling again.

“Drive careful, now,” the waitress says as Annie steps into the howling wind. Her little Sunfire complains again but starts and she heads for home, thinking of the valentine she has picked out for her husband – husband, how she loves that word – and what he’ll say when he reads it.

Annie doesn’t have to worry about Derek. His four-wheel-drive pick-up cuts a swath down the highway. He’ll be a little later than usual but it takes more than a snowstorm to slow him down at suppertime.

Unlike his young wife, Derek never thinks the worst. Which is why he doesn’t give his wife’s trip home a second thought. Not until he turns onto their street and sees a police cruiser in their driveway.

Roadkill - #fridayflash

Credit

Black crow, feathers like midnight, eyes shiny beads of pinpricked light, watching the dead raccoon in the middle of the highway.

Morning rush hour. Constant parade of cars, back and forth, back and forth.

The carcass like money on the white line.

The crow paces, back and forth, waiting for a break in the traffic.

How badly it wants.

Afternoon rush hour.

The crow sits on top of a telephone pole. Waiting for his opportunity. Watching for thieves. Small head on a swivel, patient beyond reason.

It could have moved on, it could have eaten by now, the crow, but it wants what it wants and it will endure the busy highway until the corpse is his.

Hunger rumbles. The crow waits.

Darkness settles. Traffic lightens. The crow flies down onto the highway and feasts.

Car engines, closer, headlights, the crow leaps away with no time to spare. It hunkers in the gravel, savory taste on its tongue, waiting, dodging, snapping one stolen chunk, one at a time.

Back and forth.

Sated, almost. Slower moving. A mini-van, a startled driver, a cracked windshield, feathers drifting on the night air.

We want what we want.

#friday flash - The Kind of People Who Fire People

This graffiti was spray-painted on a main commuter route in Brighton, England.

THE WOMAN LEFT Nelson LaVey’s office with tears streaming down her face and a cardboard box in her arms.

Nelson sat back in his leather executive chair and watched her being escorted through the door by a whey-faced security whelp who treated the departing secretarial clerk like she had just held up a federal bank with her staple remover, or stabbed somebody in the eye with her ballpoint pen.

Sandra Taylor, the head of the company’s human resources department, stood to one side of her boss’ desk, also watching the crying woman leave.

“I bet you’re glad that’s over with,” she said.

Nelson looked up at her, his features blank.

There was an uncomfortable split-second pause.

Then the expression came back into his face.

“Yes,” he said.

Sandra sighed. “She was a good employee, Nelse. Devoted. You can’t say she wasn’t devoted. It’s too bad we had to let her go.”

Nelson’s eyes narrowed.

Sandra didn’t notice.

“I know, the economy’s bad. I know. I just feel bad sometimes. Don’t you? I do. I hate this part of my job. You know what they call me behind my back? The Angel of Death. Can you believe it?”

“The Angel of Death,” Nelson mused. “You must like firing people.”

He offered Sandra a slow smile and she felt her rising bristles lie flat again.

“Good one.” she said awkwardly. “Seriously, though, everyone always feels sorry for the person being fired but I think it must be hardest on you, the decision-maker, the man who delivers the bad news.”

Nelson did his best to put on a suitably sad face.

“You are so right. No one understands how difficult it is.”

He stood up abruptly.

“Ready for lunch? I feel like steak, bloody and blue. Get your coat, I’m buying.”

Sandra watched his face change from sad to celebratory in the blink of an eye. But it was in that blink, that tiny grain of time, that she saw something else. A flicker of movement. A reflection. A ghastly insectile shimmer in his milk chocolate eyes.

Startled, Sandra let herself be steered toward the door.