Stranded

Today's muse: Seven Days Seven Answers

Checklist: A list of words will be accompanied by a scenario in which to use them.

Words and scenario: You are stranded on an island with only the following: spoon, ukulele, yarn, hand sanitizer, feather boa

* * *


Stranded

For weeks the sun has risen into a cloudless sky, burning everything in its path. I sit by the water’s edge, scrunching my toes in the sand, as I watch the orange orb dip into the ocean.

The island is thick with vegetation, but not animal life. Except for that one thing that keeps rustling in the dense brush when the sun goes down. I am quite sure it is tall—taller than me, at least—as the golden orbs that peer out at me are much higher than my shoulder. He hasn’t attempted to communicate, nor have I. We seem to have an unspoken understanding, the Beast and I. I will live on the open beach, sheltered by the broken fuselage that has washed ashore, and he will stay hidden in the dense jungle that consumes most of this tiny mass of land.

With an oversized serving spoon salvaged from the 747’s kitchenette, I scoop ash from last night’s fire, making a crevice for the flat rock I use for cooking. Dried wood is steepled around it and I light the miniature pyre to heat the rock to an angry red.

Well away from the tide, the other odds and ends that washed up on shore are lined up like an open-air market. Too bad there are no buyers.

As the roaring fire dies down, I set the filleted fish on the rock and it gives off a satisfying sizzle. It smells good and my mouth waters in anticipation.

I hear a rustle in the foliage and squint to peer through the darkness. I know the Beast watches, but turn back to my cooking, confident that he will go back to his side of the island and not bother me.

I assume far too much.

He walks to the opposite side of the fire, his footsteps silent on the pale sand, and crouches down, bringing his face level with mine.

Expecting a hideous creature that will devour me, I’m surprised that the man before me is quite handsome. His skin is dark, baked to perfection by the tropical sun. His sun-bleached hair is long and tied back with a paisley necktie. The growth around his chin, though undisciplined, adds a ruggedness to his features. I recognize the designer suit he wears, though I’m sure the pants were never meant to be hacked off at the knees and he should be wearing a shirt beneath the tailored jacket. Then again, the sinewy muscles that ripple across his body wouldn’t be visible. A bow tie is centred around his throat, giving him the distinct look of a Chippendale dancer.

It occurs to me that he could still devour me, though I’m quite certain I won’t mind.

“I thought I should dress for dinner,” he says, by way of explanation, looking down at his modified attire. I nod, not trusting my voice to be steady. “Seeing as you went to so much trouble.” He gestures at the fillet that continues to sizzle.

I rise, self conscious in my worn shorts and meagre t-shirt.

“I’ll be right back.”

In the fuselage, I sift through clothing rescued from the crash, rummaging through folded piles stacked in the overhead compartments, like an enormous walk-in closet. I recall the beautiful tranny that sat in 23B, who had great legs and a killer outfit.

Letting out a cry of triumph as I spy the red silk dress, I pull it out and slip it over my head. Without a mirror, I can’t be sure how it looks, but I can tell the fabric clings in all the right places. Standing on my toes, I scan the bin and see the pink feathers peaking between the Airline’s bright blue flannel blankets. Jackpot! I hang the feather boa around my shoulders and saunter back to the fire.

I note that the Beast—he is still a beast, though of a different calibre now—has taken the liberty of shopping at my makeshift flea market. He sits cross-legged, strumming a ukulele that I know was left to dry in the sun. One of the strings is broken, but he manages to seduce a melody from the small instrument.

He glances up at me and smiles. “Love the outfit.”

I fling one end of the boa over my left shoulder. “What? This old thing?”

We laugh.

After dinner, he tells me how he came to be on this island, spinning a tragic yarn of sinking ships and drowning loved ones. His golden eyes bore into me the entire time, never looking away. I’m overwhelmed by his stoic behaviour and I tell him that I’m impressed with this bravery.

He shrugs, dismissing my praise. “Let’s eat,” he says, changing the subject.

“Are you still hungry?” I jump up, my mind already spinning, concocting a special meal just for the Beast.

“Honey,” he whispers, “it’s time for lunch.”

I glance down at my bare wrist. How does he know what time it is? Besides, the sun went down hours ago. It must be at least ten o’clock.

“Honey?”

I look back up at him and the sun pierces my eyes, a sharp jab in the middle of my forehead. Pale blue eyes peer down at me, frowning with concern.

“Hon?”

I close my eyes again. Not that I don’t want to see my husband’s clean-shaven face, pinking from too much sun. But I want to melt back into that spell and curl up with the Beast. Just for a few moments.

I hear a lid snap open and he pours hand sanitizer into my hands.

“Wash up,” he says.

“I’m not hungry,” I mutter, as I rub the liquid over my hands. The smell of alcohol mixes with chlorine and coconut.

“Why not?”

I lay back down on the recliner and recall a crackling fire, a starlit night and the lustful promise of a god-like stranger.

“I just ate.”

Grass Stains

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

Four lines of prose.

* * *


Grass Stains

The guys at school were relentless, teasing him about the stains on his knees, though he tried night after night to wash them out. They made crass gestures as he walked by—thrusting motions with their hands at their mouths—often accompanied with obscene sucking noises. He kept his head high as he walked by them, his face carefully blank, void of emotion. They don’t understand, he whispered, as he knelt before the etched stone that marked his mother’s grave.

The Mentor

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

* * *


The Mentor

“You need to tilt like this,” he says, as he re-positions my hand. I adjust the slant of my knife and it slices more easily. I nod my understanding.

“Cleaning up afterwards is just as important,” he continues. “Perhaps more so.”

I wipe the sharp knife, taking particular care to clean the custom bone handle. He smiles at me and nods his approval. I look up at the man who has taken me under his wing, the man who has treated me like a son.

“Are you sure you want to retire?” I ask him for the hundredth time.

He claps me on the shoulder. “It’s time.”

I nod as though I understand. I don’t, but I know he doesn’t want to talk about it. Although this man is a legend—hated and loved by so many—he is modest and will not acknowledge his achievements. His pale grey eyes stare back at me. I can see the pride in them. He has selected me to carry on his work. I only hope I will not shame him.

We look down at my handiwork and I wait for his criticism. Nerves dance up and down my back. He makes some indistinguishable noises, then smiles.

“It’s beautiful work, son.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and I try to hide my grin. “I think you’re ready.”

My head snaps up and I stare into his smiling face. “Really?”

He laughs. “Really.”

He picks up the bone-handled knife—the knife he has used for twelve long years—and presses it into my hands.

“This is yours now.”

Never one for sentiment or ceremony, he breaks the moment before it becomes emotional.

“Let’s get rid of the body, then we’ll find someone for your first solo.”

Holiday Lemons

Today's muse: Seven Days Seven Answers

Tuesday's prompt was Checklist: A list of words will be accompanied by a scenario in which to use them.

Todays words: Sangria, Lost, Monkey, Book

Scenario: Tell me about your vacation.

* * *


Holiday Lemons

Under the shelter of the covered porch, I stare across the expanse of green lawn barely visible through the pouring rain. What happened to the sunny day the Weather Man promised? Idiot, I mutter, cursing him under my breath.

Steven joins me, dragging with him two folding lounge chairs.

“It’ll be like we’re outside,” he says, “only drier.” He is over-enthusiastic. I know he’s trying to cheer me up, but he won’t succeed. Not because he can’t, but because I won’t let him.

“Whatever,” I mumble, with a shrug.

He pulls his Monkey Face, the one that always makes me laugh. But today it doesn’t. Today was supposed to be our special day. We don’t get a lot of time together, so whatever little time we do get is precious to us. Almost sacred. Our days off are like mini-vacations to us, planned with the same attention to detail as a three-month cruise.

Today we were planning on hiking through the Moraine, stopping for an elaborate picnic lunch and taking hundreds of pictures. Pictures of peaks and valleys bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Stupid rain.

I flop down on a lounge chair and snatch my book from the little wicker table. I open it to the bookmarked page with such violence that I crack the spine.

Steven clamps his lips between his teeth, wise enough to keep quiet. I glare at him, daring him to say something. He holds his hand up, palm facing me, thrusts it at me once. The message is clear: Wait!

As he walks back into the house, I release a heavy sigh loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Any hope for a romantic day with my husband is now lost.

Soon, the porch door creeks open. Steven backs in, hiding his burden as he walks over to the pair of antique milk crates that double as a table. He sets down what is obviously a tray and turns to face me, careful to block my view.

He bends down and takes my face in his hands, kisses me soundly with a loud smacking noise.

“I love you, you know.” He kisses me again. “Even though it’s raining.”

I roll my eyes. I’m determined to be grumpy, but I can feel my resolve cracking. He is, after all, trying very hard to cheer me up.

“And you know what they say, don’t you?”

I narrow my eyes. I may be weakening, but I’m in no mood for his silliness.

He grins at me. “When life hands you lemons...”

I raise an eyebrow. Is he serious? A lemonade cliche? I get up. I don’t want to listen to his crap. Not today.

Steven steps aside, exposing the tray he kept hidden from me. Neatly arranged on the ancient crates are two tall glasses standing sentry next to a large pitcher. More than a dozen lemon slices float in the dark liquid.

A huge chasm tears my resolve. I smile.

“Not lemonade,” I say, shaking my head.

“Lemonade?” He stares at me with mock disdain. “Who the hell wants to drink lemonade on a rainy day? No, my dear,” he says. “When life hands you lemons, you make Sangria.”

* * *

Updated ...

This piece won over at Seven Days Seven Answers!

The Wild Card

Today's muse: Seven Days Seven Answers

I received a "Wild Card" award from Cate over at Seven Days Seven Answers. I've been a little less than inspired lately, but I think this may have broken through the block. Go check out her blog (but read my story first).

* * *


The Wild Card

“And the winner of this year’s break-through novel is...”

Wild applause fills my ears as I make my way down the aisle. I lift my designer gown so I can walk, suppressing a maniacal giggle as I envision tripping on the too-long hem and falling flat on my face, ass in the air.

Oh yeah, I think, that would appear on You Tube in no time at all. The icing on the cake would be to pop up as though nothing happened and face the hundreds of people who wait for my acceptance speech and my left boob is hanging out.

I climb the stairs—manage to reach the top without stumbling—and take my award from the presenter. We air kiss.

“Loved the book, dahling,” she breathes in my ear. “Read it twice.”

The thrill of that simple sentence shoots up my spine and I smile my thanks. I don’t know who she is, but she read my book. Twice.

I place the golden award on the podium and face the crowd. Their applause is deafening, as though a jet engine has just fired up right next to me. I begin my speech, one that I have dreamed of giving for years, but no sound seems to come from my mouth. The audience is pounding their feet on the floor and shouting my name. If only they would be quiet, I think, they could hear me.

I lean closer to the microphone and my new best friend—The Two-Time Reader—stands beside me.

“I’ll help you,” she purrs, and leans across the podium. I think she’s going to move the microphone closer to me, but instead, she starts to lick my hand. At first I’m repulsed, then I realize that the moisture from her sandpaper tongue must be a conduit for the electricity. Of course, why didn’t I think of that?

As she continues to lick my hand, I shout into the microphone.

“Thank you! Thank you all so much!”

As though someone has flicked a light switch, the applause stops and there is nothing but silence. That’s much better, I think, now they can hear me.

The Two-Time Reader stops licking my hand. She stands up, grabs my shoulders and shakes me. My head snaps back and I close my eyes against the nausea that churns in my stomach.

“Are you ok?”

I open my eyes and stare in Jason’s worried face. He hovers over me, his hands firmly gripping my shoulders.

“What?”

Where’s The Two-Time Reader? We were going to discuss my book.

Jason shakes his head, his expression filled with pity.

“You were shouting ‘thank you’ over and over again.”

I nod. “Right. It was nothing. A bad dream.” And I roll over onto my side, my back toward Jason.

Ginger, my orange tabby, paws her way across the top of the bed and lays on the pillow next to my head. Her purring is like a jet engine in my ear.

Off in the distance, I recognize a popping sound. That, my friends, is the sound of my bubble bursting.

Yellow Roses

Today's muse: I don't know where it came from; the vision for this story just kept swirling in my head.

* * *


Yellow Roses

The shrill ring of the telephone yanked him from his dream. The same dream he’d been having for months now: secluded beachfront cottage, salty breeze, shapely brunette. He could still smell her perfume.

Fumbling for the receiver, Simon knocked over the stack of books he kept on the bedside table.

“Fuck.”

He held the phone to his ear, scrubbed his hand over his face, took a deep breath.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, baby.” The low, sultry voice radiated sex.

Simon glanced over at the clock. 2:51. Right on time, he thought. He adjusted the pillows behind him.

“Where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been around,” she purred. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”

“I guess I haven’t,” he said, trying to sound sheepish. If he was honest, he’d admit that he’d been avoiding her. But he wasn’t ready for honesty.

“I like the beard,” she said.

Simon rubbed his hand over the new growth. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything.”

“You always did.”

Her laughter danced over him. God he missed her smile.

“When did you see me?” He mentally flipped through the last few days, wondering when they had crossed paths, questioning why he hadn’t noticed her.

“At Pierre’s the other night. You were…”

“Yeah. Right.” He closed his eyes, recalled the scene. A quiet table in the corner where no one would bother him. He drank too many Manhattens; felt like shit the next day.

“I was there with a friend,” she explained. Simon nodded.

“I wasn’t.” His voice was flat.

She paused. “Simon…”

“Look... forget about it.”

She was quiet for a moment, then: “Simon...” he knew what was coming. It was the same tone he’d heard last time, “ ...we need to talk.”

Yeah, he thought, we need to talk alright.

“Sure. Where?”

“You know where,” she said, her voice a little sad.

“Yeah, I know where.” Did she think he’d forgotten?

“Tomorrow. Same time.”

“I’ll see you then,” he replied, but she’d already hung up.

He glanced over at the clock. 3:01. Figures.

* * *

Simon stopped for a latte on his way to work. Intent on reading the morning paper, he failed to notice the tall brunette ordering an espresso. She sauntered by him, hips swaying in invitation, her perfume wafting over to him, waking his senses.

He glanced up in time to see her leave the cafe, the door chime ringing a cheerful farewell. He knew it was her, knew he should probably follow her. It was, after all, what she expected. But he stayed in his seat. He’d see her later.

He tried to keep occupied all day, calling pointless meetings and writing reports for matters he cared nothing about. He just needed to keep her out of his head. He knew why she wanted to see him. She wanted to say goodbye. For good. They’d been down this path before. When she left last time, he thought he wouldn’t see her again. And he didn’t for several months. Then she started coming around, calling him.

Not that he didn’t want to see her. He did. But it just made it harder. He knew she wasn’t staying, knew she couldn’t. He didn’t want to ask her to leave—-God, he just wanted to hold her again—-but he knew she needed to move on. And so did he.

* * *

Simon sat in his car. The radio played a heart-break country song. He looked out the sunroof at the black sky dotted with diamonds. No moon tonight, he noted and nodded. Of course. New moon, new beginnings.

He glanced at his watch. 2:50. Right on time.

He reached over to the passenger seat and scooped up the yellow roses he brought for her. The same bouquet he’d been bringing her every week for a year now. Simon stepped out of the car, crossed the gravel road and walked across the manicured lawn.

She stood beneath a giant oak tree. Raven curls framed her face, hanging past her shoulders. The thin white shift she wore seemed to float around her, just covering her bare feet.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Hey, yourself.”

“For me?” She gestured at the flowers he held.

“Yeah. Yellow’s your favourite, right?”

She smiled. “You remembered.”

“I’ll always remember.”

She looked away then, as though she’d lost her nerve.

“You know why I invited you here.” It was a statement more than a question.

He nodded.

“I know this has been hard for you,” she said.

He ached to reach out, to play with those soft curls, wrap his hands in that rich velvet and lose himself in her kiss.

Instead, he shrugged, kept his hands in his pockets.

“I can’t stay here anymore,” she said. “They need me.”

He nodded. Did it matter to them that he needed her too?

“I won’t be coming back, Simon.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She pressed her cheek against his, rubbed it against the bristles.

“I really like the new beard.”

Simon laughed. She smiled back.

“Goodbye, Simon.”

She turned and walked away, fading into the darkness, her perfume lingering in the air.

Simon glanced at his watch. 3:01. Of course.

He stared at the yellow roses he held in his hand. The last bouquet and she forgot to take them with her. Well, he’d just leave them here for her.

He lay them on the grass, in front of the granite stone etched with her name.

Maybe she’ll come back to get them.

Hare of the Dog

Today's muse:

This is the final submission for my writing class.
This piece was originally written for the radio show, Life Rattle. It is also a contender to be read at the Totally Unknown Writer's Festival in November.


* * *


Hare of the Dog

We discussed it at great length before deciding to expand our family. Life was moving at a smooth pace with just the three of us—me, Chris and a girl cat named Fred. Yes, Fred. We thought we were getting a boy cat and had already named him Fred, when we were told he was, in fact, a she. We wondered whether the dynamics would change once we added another. How much would this affect our lifestyle? Would we regret making this decision? Would we regret not making it?

After months of weighing the pros and cons, and admitting we weren’t getting any younger, we decided to forge ahead.

And we got a dog. A retired racing greyhound.

We adopted our new family member through Niagara Greyhound Adoption, an organization that rescues retired racers.

Before the dogs are permanently adopted, they live with a foster family where they are introduced to home life. These dogs have only known a life centered around a racetrack. They haven’t seen traffic, they don’t know how to interact with children or other animals, they don’t even know how to climb stairs. The foster family teaches the dogs, well…how to be a dog. All the foster families are volunteers. In return for their love and dedication, they are given the honour of renaming the dogs.

Our dog’s racing name was Bohemian Banshee. The foster family re-christened him Freddy Mercury, after the lead singer of Queen who, of course, sang Bohemian Rhapsody. Everyone called him Freddy.

When the dog came to live with us, it was immediately clear that the name ‘Freddy’ wasn’t going to work. With our cat also named Fred, calling either one of them only caused confusion. Mercury, we found, didn’t easily roll off our tongues. Chris thought the shape of a greyhound looked much like a motorcycle fender. So we changed his name to Freddy Fender and eventually dropped the Freddy.

Fender is not the brightest dog. Chris nicknamed him DASH...an acronym for Dumb as a Sack of Hammers. Fitting, given that he’s both stupid and fast. But what Fender lacks in brains, he more than makes up for in personality. He bestows upon us lavish kisses with a tongue that I am sure is the envy of all anteaters.

Fred the Cat is not impressed. She’s a bitch and doesn’t like Fender.

Fender wants to play, but Fred only hisses at him. She’s not interested in his games. It’s chaos if they’re left to roam the house together, so Fred the Cat lives happily sequestered in the master bedroom. All her toys are with her. Bowls of food and water are set in a corner and her ‘shitter’—as Chris calls it—has a place of honour in the walk-in closet. Before Fender came along, Fred stayed in the bedroom all day, buried beneath the bed covers, so this isn’t really any different from her pre-dog life.

It wasn’t long before Fender established new household routines. It’s like living with a teenager most days: he likes to sleep in, he makes a mess of his bed and he eats like a horse. He gets up with us to be let out for his morning constitutional, but most days he wanders back to his bed and curls up again, dragging himself downstairs around noon to eat his breakfast.

Evenings have their own routine. I’m quite sure Fender knows how to tell time. Around 7:30 every evening, he comes and nudges one or both of us. It’s time for a walk. He will poke his long snout into any crevice he can find—an armpit, a bum crack—he’s not shy. He will do whatever it takes to get our attention.

Later in the evening, after a walk, after two or three more naps, Fender will come and find me for his evening evacuation.

I’m in charge of the night-time routine and let Fender out for his evening pee. Most nights, he bolts out the door and chases the neighbour’s cat up a nearby tree.

This night, however, is different.

Fender runs to the corner of the yard and comes to a halt. He lunges and I hear a high-pitched squeal, followed by a hollow crunch. My heart leaps into my throat. I can’t catch my breath. Fender swings around and comes trotting back to me.

A white, baby rabbit dangles from his mouth. Clenched firmly between the dog’s teeth, the tiny furball quivers.

“Chris!” My voice cracks with panic. Chris comes running, skids to a stop at the door.

“Oh my God”, he mutters. He takes slow, careful steps toward Fender, wary of making him bolt.

“Drop it!” Chris’ voice is firm, but he doesn’t shout. Fender wags his tail, but doesn’t let go. Chris tries unsuccessfully to pry the dog’s mouth open, amid stern commands to drop it.

Fender finally drops the bunny. It flops once, twice…then dies.

I bring the dog into the house as Chris walks over to the shed to retrieve two shovels. We bury the bunny at the opposite corner of the backyard. We say nothing. The only sound that breaks the stillness of the night is the sharp slice of metal into dirt and the swish of earth as it is temporarily relocated.

We stand in silence over the tiny grave. I don’t know what thoughts pass through Chris’ mind, but I say a prayer.

Later that evening, we’re sitting in the living room, the lights are dim.

“I saw the bunnies in the backyard yesterday,” Chris says. He stares at the wall, his voice is empty. “I even took a picture of one of them.” I realize I’m not alone in my grief.

* * *

The next evening, Chris is working a double shift. I am home alone.

I let Fender out for his evening pee. He runs around the back yard, scouting the perfect location. He stops and sniffs. Then he lunges and I hear that horrible squeal again—the one from last night, the one I keep hearing over and over again. Then a hollow crunch.

I feel light-headed.

Fender runs toward me; a tiny, white bunny clamped in his mouth. He drops it at my feet. It flops helplessly.

I lose it. I was upset last night, however, I remained calm. But two nights in a row?

I manage to get Fender inside the house. The fur around his mouth glistens with blood. His tongue flicks over the wetness several times.

My heart hammers beneath my rib cage. I can’t think straight. I don’t know what to do. I call Chris at work. I need some advice. The answering machine kicks in. I leave a message.

“Call! Me!” I’m crying and hiccoughing.

I walk to the patio door with slow, hesitant steps. The bunny is still thrashing.

Shit.

I know what I have to do. A small voice in my head tells me it’s the only merciful thing to do, but I’m sick about it. I open the sliding doors, and step onto the patio, careful to avoid the dying bunny. I walk to the shed and select a spade. I drag my feet back to the bunny, who continues to thrash.

I know I only have it in me to do this once, so my strike must be true. I hover the spade over his tiny, squirming head and the little white furball stills.

He’s alive—his tummy continues to inflate and deflate at an alarming pace—but he is still. It’s as though he knows what I am about to do and wants to make it easier for me.

It’s not.

I raise the shovel, clamp my lips between my teeth and bring it down.

Hard.

The bunny’s tiny head is firmer than I imagined, but it gives beneath the blow. He makes no sound. He doesn’t move.

I hunch down and wrap my arms around my knees and bawl.

“I. Am. So. Sorry!” Over and over again, I chant, rocking back and forth, begging the gods to forgive and not smite me for taking an innocent life.

The phone rings. I send a thankful prayer that Chris had the foresight to install a telephone in the garage. I answer on the third ring. I’m still hiccoughing.

“Hel-Lo.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He. Did. It. A—Gain.”

I hear it in his voice: Chris is sick about this. He feels bad for the bunny, but even worse, he feels terrible that I had to go through this alone. He speaks in soothing tones and calms me down. I can almost feel his arms around me, stroking my back, smoothing my hair.

“It’s a clear night,” he finally says, when my voice is no longer hitching and I have stopped crying. “Leave the bunny where it is. I’ll bury it beside the other one when I get home.”

In the darkness of the garage, I bob my head. I realize he can’t see me, but I’m positive Chris knows I’m nodding.

* * *

Not too long ago, Chris told me that Fender caught yet another bunny. He dropped it and it managed to scamper away. We’re not sure, but we like to think it was the bunny who got away unscathed. Perhaps he’ll warn all his friends to stay away from our yard.

I know that Fender was only behaving as Mother Nature intended. And I know that I did the right thing by ending the little bunny’s suffering. But I can’t help but feel that Fender is now a Serial Bunny Killer and I am his accomplice. Despite the ache I feel for those defenceless creatures, I am also proud of Fender. It was obvious he was excited! His ears pointed up, his tail swung madly behind him. It was clear what he was thinking.

“I have been chasing these things around an oval track for years and I finally caught one! And I’m giving it to you because I love you so much!”

Thanks Fender. I love you too. Next time, just get me a card.

The Return

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


The Return

It had been weeks since he had walked through this door. Jake stood on the front porch and stared at the weathered wood. A few patches of paint remained—the only indication that the door had once been red.

Leaving had not been easy. Staying, he knew, would have been worse.

He couldn’t listen to the shouting anymore, witness his father’s maniacal tirades, watch his mother cower in terror. He knew, now, why she didn’t defend herself. She had known that if the man the law recognized as his father—though he never saw him as that—had nothing else to beat on, he would turn to her son. And Jake knew, deep in the pit of his soul, that it would mean more than just a beating.

The day he left was testament to that.

His mother, weakened in body and spirit, was slumped on the filthy kitchen floor, unable to defend herself.

“Get up, you lazy whore!” His hulking mass leaned into her, his face mere inches from hers. Spittle flew from his mouth onto her face. She didn’t even blink. “I ain’t finished with you yet, bitch. Get up or I’ll play with the boy.”

Her eyes flickered at the threat and she tried to move, but was unable. Her eyes, wide with fear, flew to Jake who stood trembling in the doorway. Jake remembered all to well watching his father’s head twist to leer at him. And Jake knew. Looking into those cold eyes, he knew. But he was 13 years old now—a man. His Mama might not be able to defend him any more, but he would take care of her now.

He steeled himself as his barrel-chested father staggered over to him. “C’mere, boy.” A pale tongue darted out to flick over cracked lips. Jake suppressed a shudder. As the beefy arms reached out. Jake squeezed by the hulking mass and lunged for the counter, groping for anything that would serve as a weapon. Jake’s hand wrapped around something cold and he clutched it with a vice-like grip. Whirling around, he turned to face his father and swung his arm. The older man howled in pain, his eyes staring at his son in surprise. He looked down at the dark stain that spread across his shoulder.

Jake either didn’t see it, or chose to ignore it. He continued to hack at his attacker, his vision blurred with rage. He slammed the knife into the soft flesh over and over. His arm pistoned like an oil drill. Crimson lava flowed like a river across the dirty kitchen floor.

“Jake.” It was a whisper, but the soft voice broke through his trance. He glanced over at his mother, who watched him. She sat on the floor, slouched against the cupboards. Her skirt was torn, exposing her right leg all the way up to her greyed panties. The other leg—a mere hump beneath the tattered skirt—was twisted at an impossible angle. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of her swollen lips. “Jake,” she whispered again, pleading with her eyes.

Jake scurried over on his hands and knees, tracking blood and dirt across the floor. He pushed his mother’s dishevelled hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear, leaving a scarlet smear across her cheek.

“Run,” she said.

Jake shook his head, glanced behind him at the bloody mess.

“Run.” She gripped his wrist with surprising strength. “Run!”

And he did. He ran as fast as his legs could take him, knowing that it was his mother’s way of protecting him one last time.

He was tired of running now. He would face his demons and pay the heavy price for his salvation.

The house was run down now. Weeds choked the brown lawn, bare patches dotted the roof. It was clear no one had bothered to maintain the house. Perhaps no one wanted to live in a house that had a horrific history, where someone had been butchered. The fact that the monster deserved it meant nothing.

The hinges creaked in protest as Jake pushed the door open. The stench hit him like a wall, slammed into him with such force that he staggered back two steps. His stomach revolted and he retched his breakfast onto the decaying floor. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth and took tentative steps toward the kitchen, already knowing what he was going to see.

Maggots crawled over one another, vying for position on the mound of liquefied flesh they consumed. The plaid shirt and faded jeans were the only things that identified the wriggling mass as once being human. Jake’s gaze darted over to where he knew his mother sat.

In some macabre form of respect, the maggots chose not to feed on her. Instead, she looked as she had when he had run from this home. Her hair was pulled back from her face, tucked lovingly behind her ear. Her eyes stared at him, unseeing, but the message they sent was clear.

“Welcome home, Jake.”

Cupid

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


Cupid

He drew the arrow back, pulled it taut and gazed through the site. He shifted, adjusted for the wind and let the string go, sending the pointed missile flying.

Carole glanced up. Saw something bullet through the air. It appeared to be aimed right at her.

“What the...?” She squinted, cocked her head to one side. “Is that...?”

Her eyes widened as she realized what it was.

“Oh no you don’t!” And she dove into the bushes.

Carole crawled out, pulling twigs and leaves from her hair. She gaped at the arrow that now quivered in the ground in the exact place she had stood moments before. She glanced up at the sky.

A plump cherub shook his fist at her, his blonde curls bouncing about his round face. Carole yanked the arrow from the ground and waved it at him.

“Nice try buddy.”

Cookie Caper

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

* * *


Cookie Caper

Reaching behind the box of granola and rice puffs, she pulled her emergency stash of double fudge cookies from the back of the cupboard. Selecting two chocolate sandwiches from the bag, she cradled them in her hand as though they were priceless Faberge eggs.

Halfway to her bedroom, she spun around and ran back to the kitchen to snatch four more cookies from the bag. “Screw it,” she muttered into the darkness, “the diet starts tomorrow.”

These Games We Play

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice.

Four-line poem.

* * *


These Games We Play

If I had known the outcome, would I have played;
would I have even followed the rules?

Or would I have cheated, like you did,
to ensure that I win and you lose?

Morning Commute

Today's muse: A spectacular sunrise greeted me this morning.

* * *


Morning Commute

Trees, houses and factories whisk by as the train speeds across the tracks—a harsh reminder that life passes by at a dizzying pace. My anxiety level increases exponentially as the distance between home and work shrivels.

The world closes in, presses against the windows. It is suffocating. A blur of trees and dishevelled backyards passes by, then—without warning—the world opens up. For just a moment, it is as though the veil that covered my eyes has been snatched away and a great surprise is revealed.

The vast expanse of Lake Ontario stretches before me. It is a tiny window of opportunity to cleanse my soul, but I take it. Claw greedily at the peace it offers, before it disappears behind graffiti-covered reinforcement walls.

Each morning is different; a barometer of mood. Not mine. Theirs.

Some days, the wind churns the dark water, whipping it into a frenzy as the geese bob up and down on roller coaster waves. Others, clear glass mirrors the sky above; a delicate balance between this world and the next.

As the train bullets through the commuter corridor, I take a moment to regroup. I lay down my book and gaze out the window at the greeting the gods bestow on me this morning. My heart beat steadies, the weight on my shoulders dissolves. Tranquility washes over me, infuses every pore.

Moments before the window closes, I take a cleansing breath and send my thanks, ready to face a new day.