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Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

*This piece is part of an ongoing short story*

You can read parts one through ten HERE!

“Neither if you begged me, William.” Gladys says with a strength she summons from somewhere deep within.

He’s still behind the counter, but stands up straight now, staring her down with eyes that, after all these years, still feel like icepicks pecking at her chest.

Apart from the two of them, the shack is empty. A static-distorted radio floats an Eagles song through the saloon style doors and she realizes he’s humming it under his breath. He always did know how to unnerve her.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. Did you change your numbers or something?”

“Nope. Not in fifteen years.” He says smugly.

“That means you’ve simply been ignoring me, then.”

He shrugs, maintaining eye contact and continuing to hum.

“Been busy, Gladys. What can I say?”

She looks around the dusty, vacant room.

“Sorry. You could say sorry.” She feels her face prickling as a rush of blood makes its way to the surface of her thin skin.

“Sorry for what?” His humming has stopped and his arms are now folded across his narrow chest. “For giving you what you wanted?”

“This is isn’t how I wanted it, Will. You know that.”

“You’re better off, Gladys. No me to mess things up.”

“We were working on that.”

You were working on that.”

Gladys looks at the floor. He’s right. He had never had any interest in changing. Standing here with him now may as well have been fifteen years ago. Time had done nothing to him. He hadn’t even aged for God’s sake. His tanned skin is rugged and vibrant and his salt and pepper hair feathers down over his ears, swooping the nape of his neck, making him appear both boyish and sophisticated all at once.

What must he see…deepened crow’s feet and tiny veins beginning to burst around her nose, her hair wiry now that she has to cover rapidly sprouting greys and a well-weathered cleavage line peeking out from the V-neck t-shirt she’d chosen that morning.

She allows these thoughts to distract her, but not for more than a moment.

“I need you to sign, William. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Got time for one more? It gets pretty lonely ‘round here.”

She mustn’t look as bleak as she believes.

“You’ve never had any trouble finding company and I’m sure that hasn’t changed either.”

It’s his turn to look away and she almost thinks she sees shame cross his face.

“My social life stopped being your concern years ago.” His voice is hard.

“I’m not getting into it, Will. Not interested. I’m tired. No, exhausted. Just sign and be done with it.”

“I ain’t signin’ nothin’. All’s I need is black and white proof I’m a douchebag. She already hates me.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever bothered to ask her.”

“No need.”

“Children don’t hate, William. Their hearts just crack right down the middle.”

Broken-heart-two-part-heart-wallpaper

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*This piece is part of an ongoing short story*

You can read parts one through nine HERE!

Hotly Anticipated iPhone 5 Goes In Sale In Stores

She’d seen Helena in the cafeteria today. She was talking to a petite girl with short, dark hair. Bettina, Stephanie thought her name was, but couldn’t be a hundred percent sure. The room was bustling and Helena and her friend were on the other side of it, mere blurs amongst the crowd.

She takes another long sip of her wine, sets it on the low coffee table, and allows the mouthful to wash over the lump in her throat as she swallows.

Watching from across the room what has now become familiar, the unconscious twisting and turning of the hair, the swoop of her long neck and the band of bracelets that has widened since her arrival make the second reading of the essay in Stephanie’s hand even more haunting somehow. The carefully selected words produce an ease and flow contrary to the torment of choosing them. It’s apparent the open wounds and blunt truths had dropped sharply onto the page, and only then were smoothed by a cohesive, composed mind. If it weren’t so painful it would be breathtakingly beautiful.

She sets the curled pages down onto the empty cushion next to her and reaches for her glass.

“Anass came on to to me again.” She divulges, swirling her drink.

Rick lifts his head off the couch, eyebrows raised, forehead wrinkled.

“Did you tell him you’re taken?”

“Very funny, darling. You and I have only been together at every Christmas party and staff picnic for the last five years. He knows.”

Rick lets out a big yawn, flips onto his side and takes his phone out of his pocket. Sensing her silence begs a response, he sighs.

“Are you sure he hit on you? What did he do?”

“Well, he leaned in.”

“Leaned in?”

“Yeah, you know…”

All of a sudden she feels silly, flustered.

“He insinuated.”

“Insinuated?”

“Never mind,” she concedes. “It was nothing.” But when she looks to him for reassurance, he’s scrolling through his messages and smirking at whatever’s on his screen, unaware they are still in conversation.

Stephanie picks up the essay and holds it in front of her face – a barrier between them. Whether it be the wine, Rick’s disinterest or Helena’s aching words, a brew of all three she assumes, the lump in her throat turns to hot streams running down her cheeks.

She’ll call Helena to her office first thing.

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*This piece is part of an ongoing short story*

I’m counting on you reading parts one through eight HERE!

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Coffee rumbles in her otherwise empty tummy and Gladys takes her hand off the wheel to try and settle it. The building’s roof is slightly lopsided and the hand painted sign is in need of a fresh lick. As she takes a long drag and blows it out the open window, she tries to remind herself that these damn e-cigs are supposedly saving her life and that her life is apparently more important than her sanity.

A rusty groan fills the weighted air as the door to Billy’s Bait Bunker opens and a trail of dust shrouds a surly looking trucker carrying a couple of rods and a brown paper bag out to his grimy long haul.

It’s the perfect spot for the little shack, now a much-anticipated destination by truckers from all over the country. Billy’s Bait Bunker carries everything drivers need to catch and cook themselves a fish supper while camping out at the local riverside. It’s considered a relaxing break in the middle of a week long run and a welcome change from the watered down coffee and greasy omelettes they’re used to. Being located off a back road known mainly to those rolling through the dark of night, he’s always able to have a little something extra hiding behind the counter for his longtime loyal patrons.

No sooner has the dust settled than the driver pulls out, kicking up another mini cyclone in his wake. Gladys waits out the storm before heading inside.

The cluster of tin cans hanging over the door doesn’t even faze her. She keeps her eyes steady on the graying, warped floorboards until she hears his sigh coming out of the back room. It is however, when he leans his elbows on the countertop and drizzles his sandy voice over her that she feels weak at the knees.

“What’ll it be, Gladys? My money or my life?”

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*This piece is part of an ongoing short story*

I’m counting on you reading parts one through seven HERE!

 

Helena chooses a seat at the very end, as far away from everyone as possible and right next to the window. As she swings her bag across the table and onto the chair in front of her, a familiar voice disrupts any peace she thought she might be able to steal.

“Bags don’t get a seat. House rules.”

“And rules were made to be broken.” Helena replies without looking up.

“Do you really believe that, or are you on autopilot?” The voice asks, moving to stand in plain view.

Helena is forced to look at her. Small and plain, the girl’s perfectly trimmed hair runs up and around the curves of her ears and the long pieces in front are swept to one side, revealing her dark, dramatically arched brows. Her thickly feathered lashes cast shadows on her sun-covered cheeks and her tiny nose barely pushes out past her top lip.

“Autopilot’s kind of what I do.” Helena uses her fork to make bruise patterns across the withered leaves of lettuce on her plate.

“Bitty,” the girl says as she sits down next to the illegally parked backpack. Seeing a vague look of disbelief cross Helena’s face, she says; “It’s short for Bettina.”

“Oh. Okay well, Helena.” Helena surrenders reluctantly.

“Not sure that suits you,” she says. “I think I’ve finally come to accept you as a Sinead.”

“I have way more hair.”

“Yeah, I guess I was right the first time around. You’re a Sinead like I’m a Bettina.”

“Bitty it is.” Helena agrees.

As Bitty turns her face towards the window, Helena tries to make out the tiny tattoo behind her left ear.

lettuce

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I am thrilled to host a fellow writer today who has been, not only a steady flowing fountain of furtherment, but a creative character with a reliable routine. Her name is Francis Guenette and she is, by George, a Canadian Author Extraordinaire.

Francis Guenette

Please meet Francis Guenette

Francis Guenette has spent most of her life on the west coast of British Columbia. She lives with her husband and finds inspiration for writing in the beauty and drama of their lakeshore cabin and garden. She has a graduate degree in Counselling Psychology from the University of Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. She has worked as an educator, trauma counsellor and researcher. Francis’ second novel, The Light Never Lies, can be found HERE and her blog, Disappearing In Plain Sight, can be enjoyed through this LINK. She also hosts a facebook page, so please do drop by and say hello!

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The Light Never Lies by Francis Guenette

A Little Teaser for The Light Never Lies:

As circumstances spiral out of control, Lisa-Marie is desperate to return to Crater Lake. The young girl’s resolve is strengthened when she learns that Justin Roberts is headed there for a summer job at the local sawmill. Her sudden appearance causes turmoil. The mere sight of Lisa-Marie upsets the relationship Liam Collins has with trauma counsellor, Izzy Montgomery. All he wants to do is love Izzy, putter in the garden and mind the chickens. Bethany struggles with her own issues as Beulah hits a brick wall in her efforts to keep the organic bakery and her own life running smoothly. A native elder and a young boy who possesses a rare gift show up seeking family. A mystery writer arrives to rent the guest cabin and a former client returns looking for Izzy’s help. Life is never dull for those who live on the secluded shores of Crater Lake. Set against the backdrop of Northern Vancouver Island, The Light Never Lies is a story of heartbreaking need and desperate measures. People grapple with the loss of cherished ideals to discover that love comes through the unique family ties they create as they go.

Francis Guenette works tirelessly to get her work into public view, a sometimes daunting task for us introverted writers. But, as you can see, she has been more than successful in stepping beyond that stigma and letting it go.

Guenette's book in her local supermarket

Guenette’s book in her local supermarket

An tiny Guenette enthusiast

A tiny Guenette enthusiast

Francis is currently running in a blog tour and I am one of the lucky stops. She is offering two trade paperback copies of The Light Never Lies, mailed right to the lucky winners door. One copy goes to the blog host who garners the most engagement with his or her post on Francis, and one to a commenter whose name will be drawn from a communal commenter hat compiled from all across the tour.

 

She has written a post especially for my blog, so I’m excited for you to read it below and share your thoughts…

 

Let the Story Go

I am thankful for this opportunity to appear on Hazy’s blog. As my second novel, The Light Never Lies, makes its inaugural way out into the world, I decided to focus my guest post on the fear we writers have when we must put our work into the realm of the reader. I’m here to tell you, it doesn’t seem to get any easier.

I often write with the radio playing in the background. Now and then something grabs my attention. The other day a few words jumped out and I jotted them down on a scrap of paper. No matter what you’re trying to create – if you’re not scared you’re not really doing it.

This message is a bitter pill for a writer. We must face our fears about letting the story go. We must send our work out into the world where people will judge and horrors of all horrors, maybe not even understand what we’re trying to say – a scary prospect, indeed.

There is no way around this dilemma. If we want to write a story that means anything, other people will have to read it. French philosopher, Paul Ricoeur wrote extensively about the art of interpreting written text. He tells us that the act of fixing anything in writing is the beginning of that story’s journey away from the meanings the author may have intended. The story is freed from the one who created it and enters the field of interpretation – the land of readers.

There is a vital reason why writers must let their stories go. You see, my fellow quaking with fear writers, stories matter. As human beings, we have a driving urge to tell and understand stories. It is our way of making sense of the world. Telling a story lets us drag the threads of our life backward in reflection and forward as we construct new ways of interacting with one another and our world. Each story becomes a bell echoing out past the storyteller.

Here is a call to action, my friends – as the Bard would say, screw your courage to the sticking post and put those stories out there. Cut the apron strings, I say. Let the readers do their job of interpretation through the lens of their own unique experience. In this way, our words will bounce away, leading others to thoughts, places and insights we could never have imagined.

I hope you’ve enjoyed Francis’ post today and that you’ll show her the support she needs to continue weaving stories that entertain our hearts and souls. After all…

If a nation loses its storytellers, it loses its childhood.

~ Peter Handke

 

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*This piece is part of an ongoing short story*

I’m counting on you reading parts one through six HERE!

 

Anass knows by her ring that she’s fairly newly wed. It’s one of those made to look antiques every fresh bride he’s come across in the last five years wears but it’s platinum rather than yellow gold and a baguette setting instead of a solitaire. It’s loose on her finger and he watches her twisting it back and forth. Her nails are freshly polished and shine like a display case boasting a precious jewel.

“When exactly did you become aware of this?” He asks, leaning in a little too far.

“Well, Friday…”

“You’ve known since Friday and you’re only telling me now?”

Mrs. Statton’s face prickles with heat and she’s not sure if it’s the embarrassment or frustration.

“I found it just before our lunch meeting but I was running late, so I threw it in my briefcase,” she pauses. “And, well, I’ll admit I forgot about it over the weekend. I didn’t open my bag again until this morning.”

“I don’t have to tell you the problems this could have caused for the school should something have happened.”

“I would have been late for Manger Corbeau if I’d have read it then. You said twelve-thirty sharp, remember?” Mrs. Statton leans in to meet him in the middle. “And we all know how you hate to wait, Mr. Anass.”

Anass backs off, if only slightly.

“And frankly, I think Mr. Crawford could have done more than throw it in a basket full of paperwork and walk away, don’t you?” Stephanie smiles her sweetest smile.

“I suppose…”

“So, if anyone is responsible for potentially causing problems for the school, Mr. Anass, I think Crawford should be considered.” She leans in even further, ensuring he has a clear view of the bright blue V-neck she’d pulled over her matching bra this morning.

“Mmm,” Rick had murmured as he watched her dress. “Come back to bed.”

Mr. Anass clears his throat.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll be chatting with Crawford as well.” His voice shakes a touch but he recovers quickly. “However, in the meantime, let’s you and I discuss strategy.”

 

As Stephanie walks down the hall back to the safety of her office, she tries to shudder off what she and some of the young, female teachers have to come to call “Whatanass’ Circadian Spurt.”

Once inside she breaks her own open door policy and drops the essay on her desk with an uncertain sigh.

Helena.

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Turns out I’m a jet setter.

 

What a shame it would be to visit the fair city of Dublin simply to tour a recycling plant. Am I right? Yes, I’m right. And, because we’ve stockpiled enough points through our evil plastic cards to jet me there for “free”, I’m left with no choice but to swoop in and save the day for my overworked man.

 

This trip was booked very last minute and I’ve been in crazy town trying to get ready for it. Leaving 18, 15 and 13 year old siblings alone for ten days just isn’t as fun as it may sound. Sure, I get to take off into the wild blue yonder, but I’ll be far from carefree.

 

Bills have to be paid. (It’s always nice when the credit cards actually work and the kids are able to flick a switch rather than a lighter to see where they’re going) Emergency cash tucked away (it will be interesting to see what they deem an emergency – pizza anyone?), oodles of food (I use that word loosely), plenty of toilet paper, heaven forbid, a calendar glowing like a string of Christmas lights with multi-colored bulbs encircling the 50 events that could apparently happen at no time other than the ten days we’ll be thousands of miles away, clean clothes, rides organized, laws laid and riots read.

 

Then there’s the baking guilt. Guilt that’s been rising ever since I found out I was going away without them. Thank goodness I haven’t known for long, thank you, oh kind travel Gods, but I still can’t help myself. After all, our last two trips to the greenest of isles are amongst our family’s most treasured memories, so it’s hard to feel good about leaving anyone behind. You know, Ohana n’ all.

 

Luckily though, I’m not made of 100% pure patheticester. I am looking forward to quality time with my husband who is meeting me there after being away for the last week on business and to seeing the many family members I have living in the North.

 

Anytime guilt can be presto’d into something sweet smelling, warm and comforting we’ve uncovered a glistening, no-stick lining, have we not? And, I don’t know about you, but I’m big into magical baking.

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While my daughter’s sweaty palms grip the plastic covered arms of a dental chair and she is inflicted with crazy kinds of torture, I sit, a few hundred yards away, in our local diner, somehow lucky enough to snag a deliciously cozy booth at the very back.

 

My intent was to hunt and gather, to try and squash three hours worth of errands into one, to rush. But, as we were leaving the house, my laptop somehow hitched a ride and I’m now imbibing on the creativity a morning away from home is able to squeeze out of my juicer.

 

It’s a writer’s dream. A secluded booth, back to the wall, a bird’s eye view of the little man who looks like someone I once knew, the adult daughter treating her elderly parents to breakfast, the middle-aged couple deep in some mysterious conversation that can only be cultivated by being together longer than they’ve been apart.

 

I relish the comforting heedlessness cloaked in hustle and bustle. No one’s worrying what I’m up to. No one cares how long I stay. No one wants me to stop. The server happily refills my cup as if as much to say; Yes, yes, write to your heart’s content my dear, for you are forbidden to do chores here. (I think she even had a glittering wand)

 

Now this is the point where we all imagine the sound a record player makes as its needle is abruptly lifted, scraping over several vinyl grooves on the way up.

 

I started this post yesterday morning, but just moments after deciding my waitress was in fact the good witch, my writing came to a halt. As it often does, life happened and for the next twelve hours, I was in the thick of it. Somersaulting from one thing to another, I never touched these keys again for the rest of the day.

 

But the good thing about being at this stage of my writing game is that I’m nobody. I have no obligations, no duties or requirements.

 

So basically, the pressure is off. I’m *too small to fail.

Photo courtesy of wallaadoo.com Photo courtesy of wallaadoo.com

 

 

*”I’m too small to fail” the slogan on the t-shirts the servers wear at my local diner.

 

 

 

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*This piece is part of an ongoing short story*

I hope you’ll read parts one through five HERE!

 

Smoke shrouds her shaky, short pink fingernails, curls up past her nose and out the open window into the blue of the great big sky. Her view turns murky as she shoots a smooth, straight line at the windshield in front of her.

Coffee.

Joplin booms. Gladys signals left.

And baby deep down in your heart I guess you know that it ain’t right,
Never, never, never, never, never, never hear me when I cry at night…

“Black.”

The waitress looks disappointed. The place is empty. This will likely be her only chance at a tip ‘til lunchtime.

“Just the coffee then?” Her pencil is poised hopefully over a badgered notepad.

“Black.”

With the waitress gone, the sun glares into Gladys’ face and without the breeze, it’s incredibly warm. She shifts to the other side of the booth. Her stomach, a mind of its own, doesn’t follow. Her hands flutter like an indecisive butterfly, mimicking the thoughts flying through her mind.

She’d promised herself a sole slug, so it was important to wait for the cup to land in front of her. If she sipped straight from the flask, she’d want another in no time. She’d wait. She could wait.

The cup does eventually come, full to the rim. She’d forgotten that black meant no room for cream. She tips a little more than she should out onto the saucer and, as discreetly as possible, adds a generous pour into the steaming liquid. Her eyes close as the sharp vapor reaches her nostrils.

And, she sips.

But, it’s gone before she’s even had time to think. Time to decide why she’s really here. Time to convince herself that she shouldn’t just turn around and go home.

She could go home.

She could sit on the couch with her book and sip away. She could make beans and toast. She could watch True Detective. She could talk to Helena.

Helena.

Take another little piece of my heart now, baby.
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now, darling…

Gladys looks for the waitress. She’ll pay her check. Get back in the car. Drive.

She spots her over by the register, posing herself in such a way that the cook can ogle her without much effort.

Where is Damien when I need him? Gladys wonders as she heads for the till.

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~ This piece is part of a short story ~

You can read Part One, Helena, HERE

Part Two, Gladys, HERE

Part Three, Mrs. Statton, HERE

Part Four, Eat Crow, HERE

 

Helena picks at the jagged piece of blue vinyl poking up from the empty side of her bus seat. Sure, Gladys had driven that first day of school, but now that her duty’s done, Helena is on her own. She doesn’t mind. She’d taken a long, hot shower this morning and had the mirror all to herself. Gladys, apparently long gone, had texted her to point out the obvious – bananas on counter, yogurt in fridge.

Forgoing sustenance, Helena had instead wrapped her slight fingers around the thick white handle of the carafe on the counter and poured herself a cup of steamy black coffee.

Now, her collar damp from her still wet hair, she shivers as the bus ride makes the liquid roll in her stomach.

Pulling the cord, she gets off at the stop before the one closest to the school and inhales before venturing on. She’d done something. Something that had seemed like a good idea. Well, not a good idea maybe so much as something she hadn’t been able to stop. The secrets had poured from her fast and furious, like the coffee out of the pot, dark and scalding. And now it’s too late. There they are, black and bitter.

Her bag pulls at her shoulder as she walks and her hair begins to sway as it starts to dry. She can smell the shampoo Gladys buys in the huge blue tub wafting in the breeze. Although the sun is out she shivers again, the damp now reaching the middle of her back.

Unaware of her fingers, she twists and twirls several strands before choosing just the right one to pluck from the bunch.

“You should leave some on your head,” a voice from behind her calls out. “Most people look better with hair.”

“Not interested.” Helena answers and keeps walking.

“Well, except maybe Sinead O’Connor. I have to admit she’s hot bald. A little old now maybe, but still…hot.”

Without turning around, Helena replies; “Like I said, I’m not interested in what you think of me or Sinead or our hair. Piss off.”

“Well, pick away then,” the voice continues. “But fair warning – you’re no Sinead.”

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