Category: General

Dark Night (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

Needing a distraction, I  rolled open a blind and looked out the window into the dark night.  It was two in the morning, and all was quiet in the complex.  I woke up with so many thoughts and worries going on in my head and couldn’t get them to stop.

Soon we will be coming out of a terrible situation, and where I go next haunts me.  As I keep looking out the window, I realize it’s not what I see in front of me that is dark, but I am personally experiencing what is known as ‘Dark Night.’  It’s listed as an internal condition where you become lost to the world you once knew.

As my eyes adjust, I see in front of me my worries all lined up farther than the eye can see.  The first one that approaches me is uncertainty.  It reminds me of all the risks that are out in the world if I go out there.  “Yes,” I say.  “But, at some point, I’ll have to venture out and try to find the person I once was so many months ago.”

Uncertainty just shakes its head and walks away.

Next in line is ego.  I am reminded about all the things done just to please him.  I don’t want to be that person anymore who relies only on ego.  I want to be someone who does things with a purpose in mind, not what I can gain only for myself.

“I’m done with you and your reckless ways,” I say.

Ego just laughs and reminds me that everyone always comes back because it’s the way of the world. He bellows out as he disappears, “All for one and more for me.”

I lean my hand on my chin.  My mind is lost and empty.  Where did I go?  Where did my ability to plan my future go?  Having spent so many months at home all alone has caused me to lose myself.

Joy stands in front of me with a happy face plastered on her chest.  “I am your every day and night, so smile, “ she says.

“Sorry, Joy.  You are no longer a part of me, and I have no idea how to get you back, so leave.”

Joy tries over and over to get me to smile, but nothing causes me to do that, and she leaves.

Several memories started to emerge from my past—the birth of my children, bad marriages, learning for new careers, and hundreds more. Unfortunately, none of them impressed me.  All of those items from my life are so far behind me and no longer important.

The final thing in line said, “Hi.  I’m your new path.”  She handed me a blank page with New Path written at the top.

“So, what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Write on it anything you want to do from this moment on.”

“I don’t know what exactly I want to do going forward, but I am sure it is nothing that I have done so far.”

“Maybe start at the top with I want to and then just write what is in your soul.”

I backed away from the window and sat down with the paper in front of me.  I kept telling myself, you can do this, just start.  Then I took up a pen and wrote at the top as New Path instructed.

I want to…..  

Looking to the Future (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

Life has been so grim since March 2019, causing Brianna to stop dwelling on now and envision what is to come in her future.

She closes her eyes and lets her body relax, focusing on what she can see in her mind.  The first thing that comes up is the downtown core with people walking around and talking to others they meet.  No one has a mask on or standing far apart.  They at times hug or kiss.

The next thing that comes up is Brianna sitting at her computer creating a video for her next book to be published.  In the past, it was possible to go out and read portions of your book to a crowd of people or go to conventions to promote a new book. 

She sees herself signing copies of her book in several local bookstores.  The line is long and goes on forever all the way out the door, and someone said even down the street.

Tired from signing her name, she now looks further in the future to a vacation.  Water lapping on the shore and a cool drink in her hand as she watches the surfers maneuver the waves.  Yes, this is the future she wants.

Opening her eyes, Brianna now knows the direction she will be taking for the next couple of years. First, she will finish the two books already started and arrange with the local bookstores to have signing events and meet her fans.

Next, she will give herself that vacation she has always wanted to Hawaii, where she can sit on the beach with a special drink in her hand and watch everyone with joy. Then, she would visit the volcano and maybe all the other islands before going home.

Brianna can now see an ending to all that has depressed her over the past months.  Once everyone is safe and unable to transmit the virus, she will be free to have a future. Unfortunately, she has gotten to the point that the only place she can experience a future is in her mind, but it will all become real one day.

Going again to work at the library, visiting family who are far away.  That is the future she seeks, and she knows that it will all happen with a plan.  Won’t It?

She knows that planning a future is the only way to get through the now and move forward.  Pleasant thoughts, happy places are all there in the future, just to spend time with and breathe.

She knows taking precautions now will give everyone a future.  Yes, it will probably be a different one than everyone imagined a year ago, but it will be a future.

Brianna knows in her heart that everything will get better and all her visions will happen.  She just has to believe that in order to move on.  She will put everything that has happened over the past year and just focus on her future plan.

As like Brianna, we all need to look to the future and plan what we want to do or accomplish when we get there.  So everyone, pick up a notepad and start planning what you want to do in your future—Good Luck from Brianna. 

Green Thumb: The tomato which inspired a contest, kept a family in touch, and eased a pandemic. (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

Several years ago, I stopped at a Pick Ur Own vegetable farm. I picked some tomatoes on a row marked Heritage Varieties: Sicilian Saucers. They proved to be, to my mind, the most flavourful tomatoes I had ever tasted both for cooking and for fresh eating. The next year, to my dismay, the farmer turned his land to cash crops and planted soybeans and corn. I decided I wanted these tomatoes but cannot grow them myself in my shady yard. So I announced a Tomato Contest to my family in hopes that most of them could deliver their entries in person. For the two brothers in the West, photos were the only option. The cash incentive attracted my competition loving family, including this year both my nephews.

The Sicilian Saucer tomato is as the name suggests one that can grow very large, thus making it good for a contest. The central prize has been for largest tomato. That continues this year. Contestants have been reminded that the margins of victory can be close. Last year’s winner, my nephew in Drayton, Ontario edged out his mother by only six grams. My brother in Hope, B.C. has for the past two years submitted a photo of an impressive looking Sicilian posed beside an egg. Regrettably, the concrete scale of his rivals has overruled his subjective egg; it has been suggested he borrow a scale this year if possible.  

Sicilian Saucers are the workhorses of tomatoes. Because of their large and irregular size, they do not fit neatly into commercial containers which favour a one size for all, a one shape for all. They are not a pretty face; they will never be celebrated at the Royal Winter Fair where the flashy Beefsteak tomato flaunts itself. They will never grace the cover of  Gourmet magazine. They are rough and robust, the proletarians of the tomato world, never to be relegated to the regimens of a greenhouse. But they have a noble heritage, the sunny fields of Sicily, the renowned pots of masters of tomato cuisine in the Mediterranean. 

But, they are a challenge to grow. Sicilian Saucers are not a hybrid tomato with all their inherent quirks engineered out of them. They are prone to blight. Because of their size, they easily crack and split. They need a longer growing season than some others.

The first year of the contest, my youngest sister, an avid and usually successful gardener discovered the difficulties.  She, however, is nothing if not an optimist and in late October she appeared on my doorstep, and held out her hand holding one, small, hard, green, Sicilian Saucer, perhaps in hopes that her siblings had had even less success. We have laughed about that since then.  Last year a nephew who had never gardened before produced the winner of the largest tomato. This year he emailed me in February asking about the contest because his two children were keen to help again.

This year, the third year, and perhaps the Grande Finale of the contest, some new categories have been announced and others expanded. The unassuming Sicilian Saucer will not mind and the changes will promote good will, dispelling any feelings of disgruntlement in the West that the contest favours the climate conditions of the East. Hence, there will be a new category- A Medley of Three Varieties of Tomatoes. For this the Sicilian Saucer may be called to step aside, if needed, mindful that they also serve, who only remain on their stake.

Another new category opens equal opportunity for all vegetables- A Medley of Any Three Different Vegetables. For those whose Sicilians are substantial but not the biggest, the popular Pair of Sicilian Saucers class returns. For those who have an artistic eye, there are now two prizes for Photo Presentation of Your Produce- one to include a Sicilian Saucer. Last year the sister who appeared the first year with the hard, green tomatoes presented a photo worthy of a poster- her ample Sicilian posed with rustic pottery and vintage tins.

So, what started as a simple who can grow the biggest tomato challenge has morphed into something more. Last year, with the bigger challenge of the pandemic, and already this year, as the pandemic stubbornly hangs on, this little contest has brought good natured ribbing, laughs, new interests, and a little relief to me and my family. Nice work for a modest tomato, the Sicilian Saucer.  

The Devil is Recruiting a New Servant (Maria Melillo Jones)

~ Maria Melillo Jones ~ Leave a comment

In the year two thousand and two, I worked as a production Supervisor in the automotive industry here in London.

I had the best crew. A group of thirty hardworking and caring people. Four good Team Leaders and the best maintenance Millwright.  I am going to call him Tom to protect his identity.

I still picture Tom walking down the hallway with a cup of coffee in one hand, his tool belt in the other, either whistling or humming a tune. It didn’t matter how busy he was; he kept singing like a robin. I used to tell him he was a born cheerleader.

There were days when multiple machines broke down all at once. The disarray of the breakdown could not burn the passion Tom had for his job. Never once lost his cool. He assessed the problem with a big grin on his face, prioritized it according to our schedule. 

He never missed a day of work or refused overtime. When my department wasn’t running during the weekend, Tom usually volunteered to help the other departments in the plant. 

Tom and the area team leader Angela had a good working relationship. When Angela became frustrated with a machine set up, she would go and ask Tom for advice. In multiple occasions I saw Tom training Angela while struggling   with new set ups and breakdowns. Tom was not afraid or jealous in sharing his knowledge, he did it voluntarily and pleasantly. They made a powerful team, the department was thriving

Things were good until Tom and Angela became romantically involved. The romance between them both blossomed, to the point that Tom asked Angela to move in with him in his respectful little house. They seemed to be a beautiful couple, complementing each other in every way.

The good times and the happiness did not last very long.

During working hours, I noticed a change in their behaviour. Angela was constantly nagging Tom. The jolly Tom was no longer cheery.  Upon returning from lunching together Tom expression reflected a different personality, as though something was weighing him down. 

Little arguments were noticeable between Tom and Angela. I assumed it was work-related. With time even my team began question their arguments, the expression on their faces and body language come across as being personal.

As the months passed since they moved in together Tom showed more and more sign of stress and fatigue. His eyes sunk into his skull, and dark circles were noticeably from a distance. It was as though a cloudy sky had swallowed him, draining the light from his eyes and smile. The jolly robin wasn’t singing anymore.

First there were late days which turned into missing days.

Work became a battlefield without Tom. No one knew the job as well as he did. I missed his knowledge and his patience, to the point of regretting going to work. Without saying it out loud, I blamed the woman in his life. I asked myself in search of clarity. “What did you do to Tom, Angela.”

A few weeks passed with Tom not reporting for work. I got a call from the Human Resource department to give me a heads up. “Tom is going on an extended sick leave,” she said. At this point, it was me who changed colour. I went from hopeful to bitter disappointment, nauseated and unprepared for the negative news.

The H.R. department and the maintenance manager assigned me a new Millwright replacement. He was a trainee. My stress level went over the roof in the following weeks. I exploded like a volcano, resenting my job even more. The department downtime was outrageous. 

Most of my department employees were wondering about Tom’s wellbeing and when his return would be. On the other side of the production plant rumours were floating from person to person, saying that Tom had hepatitis C. The news shocked us all, leaving everyone with an opinion of their own, assuming the worst. It seemed that the same people that once loved and respected Tom created a criminal case against him.

One Sunday afternoon, I received a call from Michela, my other team leader and Angela’s best friend.

“Tom is dead,” she said abruptly. 

My jaw dropped. I think that for a second, my heart stopped beating. The news left me numb and speechless. Regaining my composure, I asked what happened.

” He shot himself,” she said.

I was in shock and disbelief that Tom, our jolly robin, was capable of doing that horrible act to himself. My friend had just taken his own life.

Michela asked if she and Angela could come over to my house while the cleaning crew was picking parts of my friend’s brain off the walls and couch. The visit from the girls explained the arguments Tom and Angela were having. The missing days, most of all, the sadness.  

Tom was at his best while injecting heroin.

During the time of Angela and Tom living together, Angela discovered the real Tom, the addict. She loved and cared for him deeply, pleading with Tom to stop using. 

Angela was unaware of how many demons Tom was fighting. The addiction, the pain from hepatitis C. The loss of respect from all his peers and his own family. The heartache he had caused Angela while living together. 

Unable to cope with his guilt, Tom retrieved his gun from its hiding place, sat on the sofa, placed the barrel in his mouth. One-click. Boom.

The shot vibrating each room of the tiny house. Blood and brain are all over the couch, pillows and walls. It is like a clip out of a horror movie. Has the devil recruited a new servant?

Today I just hope and pray that Tom has found peace in the heavens, and he is still singing and whistling like a robin. 

R.I.P., my friend.

Delia’s Special Gift (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

The meeting began under a tall umbrella of rust-colored leaves high up in the middle of Peachview State Park.

“First to Mrs. Blackbear,” Delia said to the group gathered. “Can you update us on the humans causing trouble around your winter cave?”

Shaking her head to flick off a bee, Mrs. Blackbear addressed the large group.  “It was terrible, so, so terrible.  They woke up the children, and Marvin and I had to try and find food for them from the slim pickings this time of year.”

With Mrs. Blackbear not able to go on, Delia turned to the rabbit family and inquired about the damage to their holes.  It seemed the humans entering the forest illegally brought shovels and filled in the top of the rabbit’s homes.

They had to dig for a long time to get them cleared again.  The elders reported they were glad to have found all their family and friends.

“Miss Delia, why is it that you can hear what we say to you?”

Looking at the young fox, she told him it was a special gift she was born with, just like the one he is born with to search for food.

Delia looked out over the series of woodland creatures before her. They had stopped running away from her once they realized she could hear them as they spoke.  Over the past year, she visits every morning as the sun is coming up.  She has conversations with the birds flying by on their way to find food for their young.

When she was very young, her mother would take her for long walks in the woods that were on the edge of their farm.  They would sit in the very spot where the meeting is being held today and just remained still when the animals went by.  At first, she was afraid, and then it became a game to see if any of them would sit next to them.

“Okay, everyone.  Back to the problems at hand so I can get them taken care of.  Who is next?”

“Me,” said the beautiful doe with her twins at her side.  “I want to tell you about how those bad humans tried to steal one of the twins.  If it wasn’t for my husband showing up in time, Pascal would be gone, and who knows what they would have done to him.”

“Oh, that is not a good thing.  I’m so sorry that happened to you.  I’m sure all of you were very frightened.  I’m going to have another meeting this afternoon with the park ranger to see if we can find out who these bad people are and make it stop.”

“Miss Delia, Miss Delia, I have a question,” a red-headed woodpecker called out.

“What is your question?”

“How do I stop those bad ones from raiding my nest?  Every time I lay new eggs the next day when I get back from finding food, they’re gone.”

“Have you ever seen anyone around when you fly off?  It could be one of the bad woodland creatures, like some squirrels, we know about who also steal eggs from nests to eat.”

The woodpecker didn’t know and has never seen anyone around as she flew up into the sky.  Delia knew about a few creatures who would steal eggs to eat or just to break open.  She did speak with them, but it is difficult to change old habits.

“I hope there is no one here guilty of doing that to Mrs. Woodpecker.  I will have the ranger put a protection cage around your nest until you are ready to sit on the eggs.”

Delia assured her that the hole to get in and out of the cage is too small for even a small squirrel to get into, and besides, the eggs would be too big to pull them out.

Having written down all the complaints, Delia said goodbye to all her woodland friends and went to her meeting with the ranger.  He indicated putting the cage over the woodpecker’s hole in the tree would be done before dark.  As for the humans causing chaos to the animal world, he had no news yet.

The following day on her way to go sit in the woods, Delia heard something happening a few yards in front of her.   She slowed down her pace and approached as quietly as possible.

In the clearing, she saw two teenagers carrying backpacks that had small folding shovels attached.  Hiding behind a tree, she listened as they carried on a conversation while sitting on a log.

“Mistie, we sure got those foxes this time.  I bet they will never get back out of their tunnels for hours.”

“Henry, that was so much fun, but it is getting later than usual, and we don’t want anyone to see us here, so we best head for home and not miss breakfast.”

Delia watched as the two got up and walked down the path that went back to the village. She followed them from a distance.  She had never seen the two before, having lived here all her life.

When they got to the visitors’ parking lot, the two climbed into a dark green jeep and drove away.  Delia memorized the license plate and headed for the ranger station to write it down and have him find out who the jeep belonged to.

When Delia got to the ranger station, no one was there.  On the door, there was a note, ‘Will be back at 3 p.m.’  There was a notepad nearby for people to leave messages.  She quickly wrote down MITE-394 and tore off the page putting it into her jean pocket.

She was desperate to find out who the jeep belonged to but how.  Maybe she could ask around town at the coffee shop and see if anyone has seen the teenagers named Mistie and Henry or might have seen the dark green jeep.

First, though, Delia went back to her house, got a shovel, and headed for the closest fox den to see if she could dig them out before the babies died without enough air.  Once she got one cleared, she could ask where all the other dens were located.

As the mother fox came out of the den, she just sat for a minute, appearing exhausted.  “How are your babies doing, Daisy?”

“They will be better now that they can get some air.  Thank you.”

“Do you know where all the other dens are located?  I heard the teens say they cover several of them with dirt and branches.”

After checking the babies first, Daisy took her to the other three locations, and she freed them.  Putting down her shovel she Delia sat on the ground next to it to regain her strength and then headed back to the ranger station.

She walked and pulled out the paper she wrote the license number on and placed it on the counter in front of the ranger.

“Can you check this plate number out and see who it belongs to.  I saw the teenagers very early this morning and listened to a conversation between the two of them.  Afterward, I followed them to a Dark Green Jeep in the parking lot, and this is the plate number from it.”

He looked at her intently when she mentioned the two teenagers’ names and then glanced down at what she had written on the paper.

“It will take me a little while for them to do a search on this, so I will let you know later today by phone once I have a result.”

Delia thanked him and went back to check that all the animals were okay.

After Delia left, the ranger took a deep breath, knowing who this Mistie and Henry were and who the jeep belonged to.  He needed to go home for a bit and speak with his sister about what her children have been up to and the damage they may have done to the animals.

His sister was visiting him and his wife and had brought along her son and daughter so they could take classes on conservation in the forest.  Well, he guessed they have decided to do more before attending those such classes at the high school.

“Martha, are you home?  I need to speak with you about Mistie and Henry.”

“What’s up, Mark?  You sound so official.”

“The kids have been wreaking havoc on the animals in the woodland areas.  Before breakfast, they went out there and buried the fox entrances with dirt so they couldn’t get out.  Luckily, a special friend of the animals heard them talking and undid the damage.”

“What?  How do you know it was my children?”

The ranger handed his sister the paper with the license plate number on it.  “Does this look familiar?”

“My jeep has this plate number.  So you’re saying that my two have also been driving the jeep without a driver’s license?”

He told her it looked that way and wanted to know where they were right now.  He did see the jeep parked in the driveway when he pulled up.

“Mark, I promise you this will be handled by me as soon as they get home from class.”

Satisfied, he went back to the ranger station.  He now needed to decide how to explain to Delia who those teenagers are and what was being done to keep them from never terrorized the animals again.

The Canoe and the Shrine(Catherine A. Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ 2 Comments

The Canoe

The garden spilled down the slope to the water’s edge. A Japanese garden oddly out of place in the less temperate Ottawa. Stone paths wound through shrubs. A gingko tree stretched up to one side, planted in memory of her son. A couple of little ponds, very little, graced the only flat spot of the property. A beautiful place, very peaceful. 

The Mississippi River flowed gently between the garden and the town on its other bank. An old canoe rested upside down, its keel battered, the paint worn away.

Anne wandered down lured by the motion of the water. She tipped the canoe over and slid it down. The sun was barely visible on the horizon. Dawn yet to come. Sleep had not and Anne was looking for solace. She clambered into the canoe. Picking up the oar she pushed out into the current. The canoe rocked gently and floated slowly along. There was no need to row – just slide the oar into the water to redirect the canoe away from shore.

The bench seat was uncomfortable, so Anne slid down into the rounded interior of the vessel. The rhythm of the water was hypnotic. She felt herself drifting off, finally, to sleep.

The canoe bumped intermittently against the shore and then continued along guided by the river. No destination in mind.

The sun rose and the surface of the water glistened with its reflection. A breeze came up and the canoe moved a little faster. Anne slept on. Oblivious.

Another boat headed up the river against the current. The boater, a young man, from several miles down-river, was actively paddling. Thinking the canoe was empty he pulled up to check it out. Seeing the inert form in the bottom of the canoe he called out. No response. He reached over into the canoe and touched Anne on the shoulder. No response. He grabbed her shoulder and shook. Now she moaned. The fog of her sleep clung to her. She had been awake for so long and desperate to rest.

The young man spoke to her gently. “You are getting close to the rapids, ma-am. You need to turn around.” Anne stared at him blankly not seeming to understand his words. “Would you like me to tow you?” he said. Seeing the tie rope at the front of the canoe he reached for it and tied it to the bench of his boat. This was going to be a tough row he thought.

“I think I know who you are”, he said. “The lady with the gardens. I have seen you walking and remember the canoe at the bottom of your hill.” Anne nodded and slowly sat up. The sun was warming the air. She had not taken a sweater or a life jacket. 

She acknowledged her saviour. No question had she hit the rapids still asleep the outcome would not have been good. Still disoriented she told him. “I think I can paddle now. Please go ahead with your morning row.” Anne picked up the oar as the young man released the canoe and headed back towards her garden. She sensed that he was going to “escort” her home and found that strangely reassuring. About the age that her son had been when he died. She felt like he had reached out and made her safe.

Pulling the canoe onto shore she waved him goodbye. A tear slid down her cheek.

The Shrine

Wiping the tears from her cheeks Anne slowly wandered up the stone steps that graced her gardens. Thyme ground cover spilled over from between the stones, soft lime green and, bruised, let off a pungent perfume. Anne shook her head trying to clear the foggy fallout from her stuporous sleep in the canoe. Maybe a green tea would help. She pushed open the side door to her bungalow, stepping directly into her kitchen. Turning on the element on her stove she filled the kettle. She scooped tea leaves into her Japanese tea pot and found a mug. As the tea steeped, she wandered into her studio. The light this early morning was soft and warming. She loved the luxury of working on her art in a natural light. Not that she had done much work for months now. The shock of the news of her son’s death had yet to dissipate – she had tried to sketch but there was no spark.

“Derek, oh, Derek.” He was going to come to visit her for her 65th birthday. She knew he was going to. And then he was dead. “I don’t believe you, Joy.” she had told her daughter-in-law. Joy had tried to ease her pain by telling her that Derek could never have made the trip. He was too ill. “No, he was going to come. I know it in my hear he was going to be here with me.”

Anne poured her tea and sat cross-legged in front of a small shrine.

The shrine had been put together piece by piece in the days after she learned of her son’s death. She had been inconsolable in her grief – keening, rocking, pacing, striking her body to share the pain she believed he must have suffered. Her daughter had come to the house to try and help. Nothing she could do or say would draw Anne out.

Looking at a copy of the last poem she had kept, that Derek had written, she moaned. The mug was too hot to hold and she set it down beside a photo of her son from before he left to go live in Dorset, before the birth of his two children, before he descended into despair and alcoholism. Long before he contracted pneumonia and died in hospital – just 24 hours after being admitted. His wife had turned him out of the house and he had lived on the streets before finally coming to terms with his drinking. He was getting better. He was getting better and he was going to visit her.

It seemed in a way that he had – just now, on the river. Anne felt a strange warmth, sense of peace. Her daughter had talked about Derek visiting her in her sleep, telling her that all would be well. He had brushed her hand, his hand calloused and rough just like it always was. 

There was a presence – a wispy presence – in the room. Anne moved over to her easel, tea in hand. Setting it down on the window ledge she picked up her charcoal and began to sketch Derek’s face. His anger, his disappointment, were gone – just his poetic, intelligent presence. Anne sighed and slowly smiled as she touched his cheek. 

Diary Entry (Marian Bron)

~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

I ran into Theo Barneveld at the Large-Mart. He caught me by surprise when he backed into the parking spot next to mine. The last I’d seen of him was high school graduation. It had been good riddance to him and his cronies. If I had been smart I would have stayed in my car. Maintain the invisibility I’d worked so hard at cultivating in school. But, it has been thirty years, he was an adult now and so was I.

He did a double take when I stepped out of the car.

“Theo Barneveld, right?” I’d asked him. “We went to grade school and high school together.”

I should have stayed invisible. His mother called him Teddy and he was anything but. More python, hyena or even crocodile. A predator, not a stuffed bear. The insolent sneer was the same, the words out of his mouth just as hurtful. 

I should have stayed invisible.

He had not matured. He was still a bully, and the thing with invisibility and keeping one’s mouth shut is that anger grows and grows with each barb, every injustice. Until it explodes. I didn’t know it was lying dormant just below the skin and had been all this time. Covid stress hadn’t helped. 

I punched him, punched him for my fifteen-year-old self and four years of hell. Right in the temple. I aimed for his nose but he turned at the last second. Dear Diary, it was horrible. He crumpled in on himself, his back smacking against his van as he slid to the ground into the snow and slush.

I had killed him with a single punch. Me! I had killed a man. I didn’t know what to do. Large-Mart has cameras all over their parking lot and they had me on tape murdering a man. 

A distance of three feet separated our two vehicles and the nearest camera was two aisles over, so the chances of them recording everything was slim. Dear Diary, I’m not proud of what I did. Self preservation kicked in. Now was not the time for invisibility. I screamed and I screamed until people came running and crowding around.

“He grabbed me,” I lied, sobbing into my hands. I sold it for all it was worth. “So I hit him and I didn’t mean to hurt him but I was scared and he collapsed and now… please call an ambulance.”

So dear Diary, I had to go to the police station. Spent the rest of the day there giving my statement. But they believed me. Seems Teddy Barneveld, adolescent bully, had a record. He’d gone from terrorizing those around him on the school bus to assaulting women and getting into fights. I was free to go home.

A Blind Man Falls in Love (Muriel Allingham)

~ Muriel Allingham ~ Leave a comment

Of course, she must be beautiful, he thought listening to the dulcet tones of her voice.  She was close, he knew that from the volume that reached his ears—at the next table perhaps.  His fingertips slid across the cold surface of the table to the coffee cup, and lightly and expertly wrapped his hands around the warm porcelain, and raised it to his lips.  The scent of roasted coffee and cream reached him before he tasted the warmth and richness of strong coffee.  

            “And it was lovely,” she said to a companion.  “You have no idea until you are close to the paintings.”  He leaned to the sound of her voice, so lyrical and light.  

            “Of course, the Louvre was too busy, and I could wander through the Monet Gallery at my leisure.”

            He heard the companion ask something, and waited for her to elaborate with her impressions of the works of art that he had never seen.  

            “I got lost in the streets of Paris, in the ponds, and gardens. And then,” she added breathlessly, “I went close and it all disappeared into rainbows and brush strokes so tiny and saturated with colour that I couldn’t imagine the creation of such complex images.”  

            He smiled and sipped his coffee as though he was the companion that she spoke to, and he was there with her.  

            He listened intently to the conversation, lost in his imaginings; seeing her as a brunette, with shoulder length hair, well managed and soft. One strand would stray into her face as she gestured.  

            Her smile would be lovely, he thought.  Sweet, but would slant provocatively on one side of her mouth, as though something of a cynic hid beneath the gentleness of her rose-coloured lips.  

            The conversation at the next table had moved on from the romance of Paris to the store fronts on this busy street of Montreal, and their preparations for spring, and the picnic in the park that the woman’s companion would take with her beleaguered boyfriend, whom accordingly did not appreciate the wonders of ardour.  

            Her eyes, he pondered, would be well positioned, and turned up ever so slightly at the edges.  They would be large, but in a subtle way.  He couldn’t see the colour in his mind’s eye, but knew they would sparkle with life and the essence of her being would shine through them.  

            A crooked nose perhaps, to offset her beauty slightly and give her features character.  

            He finished his coffee, and moved the cup to the centre of the table, reaching for his cane that rested against his leg.   The cane’s rubber tip pressed into the floor, and he stood, his coat across his arm, and he turned towards the direction that the beauty sat.  

            “Excuse me,” he said, with a nervous smile.  He waited for her to reply.  “You have a lovely voice, and I hope you don’t mind that I have admired you,” and added with a grin, “blindly.” 

            He sensed her rise, and she touched the hand that rested on the cane, her perfume whispering around him; orchids and woody melodies, like filaments or fibres of a song.  Mingled, and adding a citrus tone was the scent of peach shampoo, as she leaned towards him.  And he knew instantly she was the only one for him.  

            “Thank you, sir,” she said sweetly, guiding him between the tables, before touching his arm.  “My name is Carolyne,” she said quietly, as the noise from the café disappeared into muffled chatter and the low din of the espresso machine whirring into action.  “I am here every Thursday at 2,” she added invitingly.  

            “Gerald,” he moved his hand in her direction, and she took it.  

            She’s smiling. He could feel the warmth of it.  Her hand felt soft and firm, and his fingers grazed her nails that felt lacquered—Pink—he just knew they would be the pink of the most vibrant rose he could imagine; a pink rose, with tinges of tangerine blush along the ever so delicately curling petals.  

            “Pleased to meet you Carolyne; perhaps we’ll meet again.”  He tried hard to find calm in his voice, and managed quite well to disguise his delight—or so he thought, and with a tap of the cane on the tile floor, he moved as eloquently as he could through the crowd, imagining that she watched him leave. 

            Oh, the sweet pleasure, he thought, as the cool spring air met him.   

            “Quite the handsome man,” Carolyne’s friend cradled the oversized coffee cup, and smiled as her friend took her seat.  

            “He is, and he can’t see this,” Carolyne moved her hair slightly revealing the long gash of wrinkled scar that blossomed across her cheek, not ending until it disappeared beneath her chin, now the colour of tea and straining scar tissue.  She let her hair fall like a curtain to hide it again, tracing its journey with a red nail.    

            “Or this.” She raised her left hand, letting it fall heavily onto the table and Carolyne’s companion watched a patron move past.  His eyes widened with shock at the sight of Carolyne’s oversized hand baring fingers of hideous distortion.  A scone balancing on the full cup he carried quivered and threatened to drop onto Carolyne’s head, before composure was regained, and the scone rescued.  Placing the coffee and scone on a table, he looked back and then adjusted his seat so as to look away, his face reddened.  

            Gerald’s cane tapped rapidly across the sidewalk, touching a planter on the left, a light standard on the right and he smiled upwards at the people he sensed moving around him—most he knew would not gaze into his face for the embarrassment that disability prompted.  

Smoke, Fog and Haze (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

As I look forward, all I see is thick smoke, heavy fog, and a glaring haze blocking my view.  My life has been turned upside down over the past five months, and my sense of direction has disappeared.

Each night before going to bed, I plan what my next day will be like, but after getting up in the morning, the plan disappears.  Instead, I seem to wander through an array of things blocking my intentions.  It’s like my mind is just walking through a thick layer of smoke, and there appears to be no way out, so I just sit.

I need to find a way to clear my mind from the things that consume me and return to life.  I set goals and break them.  I set deadlines, and they seem to create a haze on my intentions, and I change them.

It is so uncomfortable not to be able to navigate just one day as planned.  I believe that maybe the sorrow of what is taking place has a hold on me.  It is like I am living in a fog that keeps rolling at me minute by minute.

I need to deal with the feelings creating the pause but have no way of knowing how to accomplish that feat.  The thick smoke billows over my head, the heavy fog makes my eyes water, and the glaring haze is like a bright light telling me to stop.

I will try once more tomorrow to start small and try to progress from there.  No looking at bank accounts or spreadsheets about budgets every morning and set that task to a specific date and time during the week.  

No more watching television from the time I get up until bedtime.  I am going to set a few simple goals.

  1. Get dressed and go for a walk before breakfast to get the muscles moving.
  2. Listen to stimulating music while eating breakfast.
  3. Set up my computer for the day to write for at least two hours about anything.
  4. Go out after lunch again and walk the two blocks to the main intersection.
  5. Work on creative things like videos and animations for book releases.

I hope the above is not too difficult.  By going out of the apartment, even though we are in lockdown with a stay at home order, the fresh air will help clear some of the fog or clouds or maybe at least the haze in the beginning.

Also, times need to be established for going to bed and getting up.  Anyway, to try and dissolve the fog during the night in my dreams that wake me.  They create extreme stress regarding what to do about this or that.  I need to let go of things and let others involved takeover and be responsible.

Before five months ago happened, I would enjoy each day working on my writing and spending time outside or riding a bus just to be around other people.  That life is gone, maybe for good.  I had been so used to getting up at four in the morning and working until late in the evening for three full months.

That pattern became my routine, and life at home didn’t exist.  Once when coming home for a few days, I forgot which key opened the building door.  That, I think, is what created the heavy clouds, thick fog, and glaring haze in my day.  Everything just kept repeating day after day and each day blended into the next until I had to stop.So, here I am now with no way to see how to go forward and reclaim at least a bit of my life from before.  Maybe, that is not the answer.  Just perhaps, I need to start from the beginning and leave the past behind.  Just go forward and create a new normal that will make me happy and allow me to not be blocked by obstacles.

A Dog’s Thoughts on a Human (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

You ask me about my Upright. Let me start by saying I think all their problems come from being two-legged Uprights. Have you ever tried to walk on two legs? Painful. Whatever made them do it?

Still my Upright is good to me. The dish, ah the dish. As soon as I hear, “There’s something in your dish,” I’m out to the kitchen. Dish, the magic word. It used to be just the kibble, ok but boring after a while. Then one day, a little piece of juicy chicken on top and some carrot. Another day a bit of potato and a piece of a fish. I could smell it from the den where I was stretched out on the couch. It wasn’t everyday though. But I got to thinking. If I didn’t eat that kibble, she would understand and put something delicious on it. It didn’t take me long and she was trained. Something every day. One day though, for some unknown reason there was nothing. I decided to wait it out. It was really hard. All that evening, through the dark, until the next day when the dark was coming again. But it worked. Beautiful chopped egg.

Then I noticed the portions getting some smaller. I would eat but my stomach growled. So I would go into the den where she sat and sit down right in front of her and give her my stare and purse my lips and give a new little moan. It works. Always a little something more, usually one of those lamb biscuits, my favourite.

I like the couch. Just the one in the den. I don’t know why the other one is “Off.” Sometimes I stretch out on my back and I feel so relaxed. I let me head flop to the side and punch my front paws into the air. And I love to splay my back legs out. “You are a shameless dog,” she says, laughing. I have no idea what she is getting at but then she comes and gives me a belly rub. Nothing feels better.

Sometimes when I am in the house, I can hear the squirrels jump from the roof to the birdfeeder and I run to the window and give them a good barking. I don’t know why she doesn’t bark at the squirrels. She’s really missing out. 

In the night-time, we sit in the den and look at the big window on the table. There are always dogs and more dogs to see though they never hear me when I rush to the window and put my face right on it. I even know the names of two who come around all the time. She will say, “Alfred’s here or your friend Sikes.” As soon as I hear their names, I’m there if I’m in another room. There are other creatures, some I know like squirrels and ducks or horses, and others that look big and strange. I’m not really interested.

Nothing beats a walk. She lets me sniff. I have heard there are dogs that don’t get to sniff. Nothing beats a walk except a ride to the place with the horses. As soon as we get there, she opens the door and says, “Go wild.” I can run as far as the woods, roll over in my favourite smell pits, sometimes jump in the pond, play with three other dogs, and try to get the cat’s food. I have found the horse leaves some dropping in his stall and I’ve eaten a piece. That gets me a big, “bad dog.” I know what that means but I don’t understand really.

At night when we cuddle in the den, she will say. “Little dog, I love you so much.” More unclear words but it always gives me a warm and safe feeling.