Cormorants swoop and dive-bomb into the salty water, their trajectory stealthy and deep. The ravenous dog looks on, the birds out of reach. He paces back and forth, riveted along the water’s edge. Frothy waves tickle his paws tracing wet impressions in the sand. He is prepared to wait. His stomach growls and bends. The dog has been on the hunt for five days, lost far from home, disoriented since the electrical storm. He is managing quite well for a purebred: cozy cave, blankie, and binky, out of sight, out of mind. Foraging comes surprisingly easy for him, as if it were a daily hustle. He’s made friends too; first ever beyond the local fenced-in dog park. His master would be impressed, no, worried, both. He does not know that his human family has been busy plastering the neighbourhood with posters, leaving bowls of premium kibble and fresh water out on the veranda. The porch-light left on 24/7, beckoning him home. He is too far away to see the beacon. He does not look back. He does not know where that lies. Adaptation happens fast. He’s caught and devoured his first field mouse his second day out, not altogether bad. Crab shells dropped by seagulls onto driftwood, shale, and barnacled rock, crack open, offering remnants if he is quick; the gooey innards delectable. The dog is now a scavenger. His lacerated gums and tongue are sliced on the sharp edges of shells he consumed in haste; little droplets of blood stain the hairs around his muzzle. Yesterday he devoured the shells masticating claw and carapace in one fell swoop. Today he knows better. He eats slower. He has already corrected his mistakes; he is a quick study. The cormorants circle around. They strategize en masse, targeting a school of pacific jack mackerel. The dog yelps knowing they will score big. He wants in, and is not afraid to ask. The squadron descends in perfect alignment, a surgical strike. The display is impressive. He is eager to follow suit. He ventures out past the tide-pools, but is immediately turned back. The undertow is strong. He faintly remembers being told once before to ‘be careful’. He takes heed. The tide-pools are teeming with life. He rummages. There is a lot to collect. Paws do the dirty work giving his inflamed lips and ragged tongue a reprieve. There is a faint cry in the distance; the winds muffle anything more distinct. He hears it again, a little closer now. He turns his head up in the direction of the commotion, but is not sure if he should scamper away farther down the beach. Cautious, he thinks he recognizes a figure trudging through the sand, coming closer, arms flailing. He is sure now, the spirited gait, long auburn hair flapping in the wind. He’s heard that call before – “Hunter”. The dog will have a warm bath, fluffy blankets, and special treats tonight. Wild with hunger, the cormorants look on with indifference. word count 500 Published in 'Brilliant Flash Fiction' - June 30 2018 Reprinted in CommuterLit September 6, 2018 Reprinted in Flash Boulevard September 22, 2018 Presented Live at "Canadian Authors 'Open Mic' June 13, 2018. @ BC Alliance for the Arts. Presented Live at 'The New Dominion Reading Series' Feb 16, 2019. @International Centre for Art & Technology. Presented Live at 'The Writers' Showcase', Vancouver Public Library - Feb 17, 2019 @Central Branch
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Ezekiel and Jedediah left the quiet Amish hamlet early Thursday morning, walking on foot toward the Amstutz Farmstead six kilometers away, through the callow field and unhurried roadside. The journey would take them not more than two hours. It was cool out and they walked briskly, with not much conversation between them. They were to collect a young calf and walk it back stopping as often as need be for water and rest, ensuring the animal arrived in good condition. It was to be a breeder. The transfer at the farm was brief, their send-off hurried, a turnkey operation. The boys expected no more. The calf, big brown medallions of dewy-eyed sweetness followed their every gesture, sticky wet licks dribbling across salty palms, bonding immediate and sure. The late morning sun rose high on the way back, pitching long shadows through the tree-lined backcountry roads. Sweltering heat stirred up pungent wafts of manure. The fetid horse pastures overwhelmed as they ambled alongside. Tiny gnats congregated in droves, their frenzy unrelenting. The trek was slow and the breeze absent, but the boys remained patient and kind with the beast. There was time to dream, indulge the senses, yet nothing came to mind; it was their way. Shocks of purple and ruby azaleas blazed the path, the colours garish and bold against the staid and simple palette of the boys’ grey broadfall trousers and flax straw hats. They meandered slow and deliberate, the young calf safely in tow. After a while they stopped to rest and refresh the calf where the confluence of Sawkill Creek and Rameyskill Rivuletbreached. The animal stood quenching its thirst not a stones throw from a heap of discarded items; a mess of junk: green tarp, broken stool, glass bottles, rusted aluminum cans, a tangle of wire… when something caught their eye. It was a radio. It’s oldsaid Jedediah, kicking the dirt around it. Let me try, Ezekiel motioned. The boy took up the box, braced it square between his knees, and turned the hand crank, slowly, then with increasing speed. Take heed Ezekiel. Should we be touching this? Jedediah stepped back, his legs wiggling like a field cricket; neck craned, glued to Ezekiel’s every move. With less than a minute of effort the generator lit up full of juice, and Jedediah expelled the breath he had held back. Ezekiel looked up, his eyes magnetic and wild. Ha it works! He turned the dial. An announcer’s voice boomed, the ball is long, outside, McMurtry catches it, passes it to Benson, Benson to Archibald – it’s close…. and Archibald nails it at second base - heeeee’s out. Jedediah spellbound, plunked down beside Ezekiel, and gave the dial a spin. Heavy metal pulsed: Tell me that I’m dreaming. I can’t stop screaming. Wake up or it will pull you under. Let them hear your thunder. Aaaaaayyyyiiiiii. Squinching up his nose, Jedediah slapped his palms against his ears, while Ezekiel quickly gave it another spin. What was that? Jedediah asked. I dunno. Really loud and cranky. Ezekiel said. Call our toll-free number right now to claim your free bottle of Headache Away before it's too late. You don't have to suffer from crippling headaches and pain anymore.1-888-End-Pain HaHaHaHa. More!Crank it again, Jedediah urged, clearly on board now. The boys lay on tufts of Pampas grass, plumes waving, a slight breeze whispering at the water’s edge. Their charge all but forgotten stood off to the side, tail ricocheting left and right, gnats a constant companion. The brilliant sun waning long in the afternoon had all but deserted the sky, its trajectory a new horizon. *** Ezekiel and Jedediah would return again and again to their hidden cache. Their world expanding exponentially each time, the return to the fold increasingly difficult. They listened for hours sprawled out in the meadow under the shade of the Buckeye tree, well out of range of the homestead. There, shared conversations had no end of detail and animation, irrepressible laughter and gaiety, an everlasting friendship forged. The maturing bull grazing in the paddock far in the distance. Without seeing it coming, the irrevocable transformation took hold when the sultry tones of Patsy Cline’s ‘I Fall to Pieces’reached their ears and hearts. An ache and throbbing never imagined, skin electric. Melting like ice cream on a warm porcelain bowl. Nothing was ever so good. Nothing ever so sublime. Their blush was deep, their shame untold. They would not give it up, not then, not ever. Word count 750 Published in 'Stereo Stories' July 4, 2018 Katherine meanders down the hallway. Plush carpet muffles her footsteps; no one notices she has left the room, or the first floor. Relatives and friends of the deceased come and go; booze flows, condolences are offered, plates of canapés and crudités passed around. She peers through the bay window on the second-floor landing. The street outside the house is littered with SUVs, compact two-doors, and luxury sedans. Someone has blocked the driveway; a commotion breaks out. It is a perfect cover. Katherine steals away. She knows the house inside and out, its three bedrooms with ensuite, well-appointed living room, cook’s kitchen, Juliette balcony off the master, laundry chute from the second-floor linen closet, and double tennis courts out back, as if it were her own; she helped make many of the décor choices when Lauren first bought the lakeside home after her divorce was finalized. Making a beeline to the master bedroom’s walk-in closet, Katherine places her hand, expectantly, on the ebony box inlaid with pearl sitting on the lacquer dressing table. Lifting up the lid, she catches her breath; the brilliant shine is dazzling, intoxicatin..... - Without pausing, she races down the back staircase and out through the terrace doors. As she throws the Audi into reverse, Katherine glances back at the house; she has no regrets. Giddy, she pulls away from the curb and decides she will return later for the Sultanabad rug, and the Thompson Jack Pine. Reaching the highway, she cocks her hand just so, and the light catches the diamond’s exquisite facets. She cannot believe her good fortune. In her reverie, Katherine does not notice or hear the tanker truck barreling toward her at interminable speed. Word count 285 Published in 'YELLOW MAMA'' Issue # 68, June 13, 2018 http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/id1856.html Grandpa has been sighing a lot lately. He sits at the kitchen table tap tapping the checkered cloth, twisting salt and pepper shakers, brushing off non-existent crumbs, trying to make things right. Grandma makes tea, lets the bag float till the water turns crusty. He doesn’t touch it. The news is on all day now. Times have changed he keeps saying. Grandma can’t console him. If only he was younger he says. He would do something. His vacant stare lets me know he is listening intently to the reports. I don’t dare interrupt. He’s told me he can’t miss a thing; that it can change from minute to minute. There is no telling what can happen. He whispers ‘no one will be safe’. The lump in my throat does not want to go away. I can feel his pain, his deep disappointment. His worry. I have never seen my Grampa like this before. I can’t tell if he’s aging before my eyes, going downhill fast, or what. I look at Grandma hoping she can do something. Maybe she knows what he needs. She is starting to sigh too. I’m not sure if it’s because of what is happening with Grandpa or if it’s about what Grampa is so upset about. I pretend to do my homework, but I am really too distracted to study. I am starting to sigh too. It’s all very unpleasant, even a little scary. It feels like my family has been taken hostage, but I can’t figure out by who. He keeps repeating ‘I feel the Bern’ but it doesn’t seem to be changing the situation. I’ll keep watching, and waiting, with him word count 277 Published in 'Spillwords Press: Where Words Matter' January 7, 2018http://spillwords.com/grandpas-not-feeling-well/Reprinted in 'Wilderness House Literary Review ' July 1, 2018 |
* Sissy Elspeth Radcliffe *
Dearest Barbara,
So sorry I’m not there to let you in darling, it couldn’t be helped. I had to change my hair colour appointment with Mauricio; he’s out of town next week and my wave couldn’t wait. Have that ‘Big Do’ at the Breast Cancer Foundation coming up. It’s all so exciting. You understand. I left instructions with the doorman to see you up with you’re your luggage etc. I hope he was helpful. So glad you’ve arrived. Make yourself at home. You remember where the guestroom is.
I’ll be back by late afternoon, at the latest, I promise.
Don’t worry; we’ll have a grand ole time. I’ll cancel a few things out of my schedule, if I have to, … packed you know… Can’t wait to hear about Jennifer’s wedding. So sorry we couldn’t make it Babs, you know that don’t you, You remember I told you Charles was offered a golf package in the Scottish Highlands, a standard bonus, - what a gorgeous property… he just couldn’t say no, even though it was Jen’s important day. I know I could have come on my own, but Charles insisted. What’s a girl to do? You explained to her I hope. She loved the bird from Tiffany’s, I’m sure. All the girls love Tiffany’s.
So great you’re here. How long did you say you were staying? You left so quickly last visit. We hardly had time to schmooze.
BTW, if I’m not back by dinnertime, there’s Chinese in the freezer.
- Sissy
*
word count 252
Errol Fluevog tugged at the down pillow; its soft plunge gave way easily. Failure, all too familiar. His modus operandi: giving up. The death knell tolled, and he could not shake it.
Errol had to get it right this time. Slumped over his knees, he let his heavy body, weary, slide unabated, to the floor. He reached for the plastic bag beside the motel bed and dumped out the toiletries he had purchased earlier that morning. Working quickly before he changed his mind, he pulled the bag over the top of his head and tied it around his neck until the fit was snug. Gasping for air, he refused to let go. Finally, success.
114 words
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The pastry cook was not a patient man. He hollered down the laneway urging Pierre to get on with it. Tourtière required an exact temperature for crust to turn golden and flaky; not a minute more, he squawked. With fists squeezed tight, the young boy shook the chicken till it yielded. Its limp neck hung, blood dripping intermittently on top of blue Nike’s. The stink was immediate. Pierre’s hand rushed to his nose, pinching nostrils closed before nausea hit. He did not hear the snap, he thought to himself. Usually, the snap is the tell-tale sign. He would try again with the next one.
104 words
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No part of these stories / blog may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied form without written permission of the author, Karen Schauber
Contact Karen Schauber for written permission
Contact Karen Schauber for written permission
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