Candy red lipstick stains his starched white collar from left to right. It is clearly visible from meters away, but he bears no shame. The plump Russian belle who deposited the swak, ekes out a high-pitched laugh as he pulls her toward him for a repeat performance. Wacking her behind, he announces brazenly, My Prize, and slips his stubby fingers deep into her cleavage to retrieve the shiny coin. Laughing that god-awful sound, she grabs it from him, and drops it in the slot setting the dials a-spinning. Her finger, fast to her lips, shushes everyone to listen for the Double Diamond payout. But there is no ding. They’ve been partying hard since Tuesday. She’s kicked off her ermine slippers and is bent over, looking for them. He takes in the view and smacks his lips, Yum, Yum. But the clock is ticking, and he knows it's time to pack it in. Summer’s end is drawing near. Raking his hands through shiny cobalt hair, he pushes away the last dregs of beer and drags his coat up off the floor. I’ve got to go, doll. The doll turns on a dime. It’s as if he tossed her a stinger; her look, now bitter and dour. Hey, where’s my party girl gone? He hands her the bucket, weighted with coin. It seems to appease, a bit. A quick change into a clean shirt and he’s motoring out of the lobby. No looking back. He fingers the smooth surface of the pink cockle shells in his coat pocket. The ones he picked up in the gift shop on the Strip. For his daughter. He'll tell her he found them at the seashore on his Faith Mission Retreat. Her smile, sweet, and innocent; she’s Daddy’s little doll. Pushing the pedal to the metal of his luxury sedan, he hums a dandy tune. It’s been drizzling on and off for hours and not much is visible. He makes haste. Salt Lake City is just over the horizon and his congregation awaits. (337 words) Selected as 'Best of Across The Margin 2019, Fiction'
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She hears the storm brewing from inside the windowless room. Her skin clammy and slack. She has not seen the light of day for weeks. Desperate for a glimpse, a taste, salt of the Salish sea, lick of raindrop, she stays tuned to the slightest of indicators. It comes quickly. Her eyelids flicker as the lightning cracks, and she counts, ‘one Mississippi, two Mississippi... waiting for the thunder to boom. It is close. Curling into a fetal position, she is comforted by its predictability. Its imposing presence signals she is not alone. It is the silence she dreads; deafening and cruel. Intrusive thoughts return to haunt, as a little girl, her parents too, would leave her locked in her room while they went down on the Strip. She was their burden, and they would let her know in no uncertain terms. It is not them that she conjures now in her hour of desperation, it is Ruby, tiny and bubble-eyed, who kept her trust during those punishing, lonely times. Two eyes bobbling, upward-pointing, the goldfish bowl her communion. She is shaken from her stupour when lightening thwacks again. No Mississippis this time. It is followed instead by the hollow thud of the basement door. He is back. There is shuffling, and muffled human sounds; whimpering and intermittent pleading. She cranes her neck as far as the chains will permit. Chaffing has left her skin raw. Her lips purse tight as she winces and pulls against the steel prong collar. She has hoped there wouldn’t be someone else. She knows the routine, the forced strip, pinned to the rack, the retching, and passing out. It begins again. The lightning strikes, and she counts, one Mississippi, two Mississippi… 287 words Published (as a Reprint) in Siren's Call EZine p.42 - March 26 2020 Presented Live at "SFU - The Writers Studio", Reading Series - Dec 6, 2018 Published in Danse Macabre, November 24, 2018 He stands up erect as she approaches the table. She is a vision of sea breeze and morning glory; her stride, a diaphanous runway walk. Subduing a rising blush, he slides out the upholstered chair and catches a tumble of soft brown curl as she folds into her seat. What a babe. Conversation is easy, peppered with delightful laughs in all the right places. She twinkles, like faerie dust. He suppresses a boyish guffaw. She’s studied in France, travelled throughout Spain, and works at an NGO. Candlelight washes over her porcelain skin. His scorecard is filled. They study the menu. She gladly follows his lead. It’s Mongolian rice, scorched rabbit with beet chips, and warm pear with mint. Sipping wine, he fingers her wrist, playing lightly with her gold chain. She worms her way, lacing her fingers in his. It was only a few days ago that they met online. Light chit chat and playful banter. And here, now, something is beginning. The dishes arrive, steaming. They exchange ‘Bon Appetit’. At first, he attributes the noises to simple enjoyment. She must find the meal tasty, to her liking, he tells himself. Her chewing, chomping, slurping, gurgling, is boorish, and loud. She seems unaware. He watches her hoover the medley into her mouth, wide like a midnight truckstop. Her mandible palpates in slo-mo, lips flapping, teeth gnashing, yeast staining the relationship. Transfixed, he dangles his fork mid-air like a Calder mobile. For relief, he shifts his gaze to the mural baked into the back wall; a sumptuous but serene garden scene. The soulful deer and her fawn graze quietly among willowy pampas grass, the play of light on the water pool fresh, and alluring. He turns back to the beauty, as she flicks her long chameleon-like tongue to retrieve a burgundy droplet spilling at the corner of her mouth. She throws the sticky lingual out and wraps it around a tender morsel of rabbit. It disappears faster than the click of a shutter button. The crunch of bone, audible. He wants proof. He pulls out his iphone and says ‘cheese’. For Instagram, honey. She smiles demurely, a thin shiny tail whips back and forth through clenched teeth, like black licorice. 369 words Published in Defenestration Literary Magazine August 20, 2020 Presented Live at 'The Writers Showcase', Vancouver Public Library, Feb 17, 2019 @Central Branch Presented Live at 'The New Dominion Reading Series', Feb 16, 2019 @The International Centre for Art & Technology Presented Live at Christianne's Lyceum of Literature & Art, Open Mic - January 18, 2019 Presented Live at "SFU - The Writers Studio", Reading Series - Dec 6, 2018 Published in Ellipsis Zine October 17, 2018 Meringue clouds billow across an endless sky as they march like foot soldiers up towards the mountain peak. Still early yet, the sun too begins its climb snaking above the timberline, its thin beams razor sharp like cat’s claws. The temperature catches them unprepared. Like nomads, they shuffle together to keep warm. Eleven weeks and the days keep coming, the laminated map guiding their way; encrusted now, viewed as if through grainy mustard. Clusters of Indian paintbrush speckle the alpine meadow before them in swaths of orange, crimson, and fuchsia. It is an impressionist painting to die for, but no one notices the brilliance, their gaze always much farther afield. At noon they pause briefly along the tree line, to refresh and get their bearings. A quick bite of cubed cheese and shaved beef jerky, they drain their flask and press on, quiet, like dead men walking. With the atomic glow nipping at their heels, they scramble atop the glade, loose shale underfoot, blister beads wasting away tender raw feet. Stopping to swaddle wounds in fresh socks is out of the question. They are a ramshackle group formed in haste. They pray they are not all that is left. Bear, timber wolf, and coyote used to roam this region, but they seem to have perished; if not from the blast, from the dust. A sudden whiff of scat stops them in their tracks. Their nose registers the odour as fresh. It is the first good sign. Excited murmurs break out. Like the needle pulling north on a metal compass, they feel they are close, within range. A red-tailed hawk, its pale underbelly sharply visible, soars aloft in the distance, pointing the way. They pick up their pace. Ahead, the safe zone to the north, strong and free: Canada. (296 words) Published in Credo Espoir p. 39. January 7, 2019 Published in The Quilliad (in print), October 30, 2019. Toronto.
Hektor unzips his pants, letting them drop to the floor. He recalls the first time he and Deborah made love. Loud squelching sounds echoed as they writhed, slipping and sliding up and down creamy Naugahyde seats, the afternoon they christened his new Chevrolet. Now, climbing up onto the table, dove grey vinyl grabs his rosy poultry skin, reproducing that same juicy, sucking sound. It doesn’t want to let him go. Deborah wants ‘proof’. “If you love me” she repeats. Is she just teasing, testing maybe? He’s running around in circles trying to figure out which. There is still time to back out he reminds himself. He looks down at it, a fish flapping on a hot deck straining for a molecule of water. Not a pretty sight. He feels feverish, but not from any flu bug. It is the image of the guillotine he can’t get out of his mind. He looks around for a swig, licking dry lips. No chance of rum. They don’t keep anything but Marcaine and Xylocaine on site, the nurse announces. Her silky fingers press his flesh flat against bone. He feels bitter, but he is not going to beg her to stop. He should have done that with Deborah. She prepares a 27-gauge, 1.5-in needle ready to insert. It’s only a circumcision, Deborah reminds him. He’s not pissed, he tells her. But he decides he’s going to buy himself a new truck. 238 words Published in The Bending Genres Anthology 2018-2019 (in Print) Published in Bending Genres, October 23, 2018 Presented Live at Simon Fraser University 'The Writers Studio' Reading Series December 6, 2018 Presented Live at Christianne's Lyceum of Literature & Art, Open Mic - January 18, 2019 Presented Live at 'New Dominion Reading Series', International Centre for Art & Technology, February 16, 2019 Presented Live at 'The Writers Showcase' , Vancouver Public Library, Central Branch, - February 17, 2019.
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