Flash Fiction Submission

I rarely enter contests, but this one caught my eye. The premise is that the first and last lines, bolded below, were supplied, and the middle is to be filled in; 100 to 250 words.

http://www.cbc.ca/books/2010/12/cbc-literary-awards-flash-fiction-challenge.html

Should be easy, right? Not so much.

I did love the challenge of trying to dodge being led into a creepy snowman tale; it probably didn't earn me any points, but it was fun!


The Snowman

The snowman grinned malevolently as the early spring sun warmed the side of his face, shifting his handsome features, distorting his happy smile. His once jaunty hat sagged. His twiggy left arm, once raised in joyous greeting had already fallen, hanging loosely by his side, as if paralyzed. The baleful sun dipped behind the opposing mountain buying him some time, but he knew it would be soon, too soon.
It's not time yet.
Too soon.

He was born of a high country holiday celebration and then stood lonely vigil over the mountain all winter long. He had surveyed the valley below, watching the eagle soaring in lazy spirals, watching the shadows track across the mountainside. Time had been his friend, day following long day, but now it was poised to betray him. As the moon glittered on the icy white a thought slowly filtered into his frozen mind.
The shadows.
Cool shadows.


The sun climbed higher, warm beams slicing through the thin air, absorbed and reflected. They carved a melting tickle here and the snow shifted there, under the snowman's round form. Slowly he tipped, and rolled, and accelerated. Gravity met impetus as he triumphantly tumbled down and further down. The jaunty hat was lost. His handsome features were gone. None of that mattered in the shadows; he was alive.
Safely buried.
Alive.

The Chase is On

It was a glorious Thanksgiving Day; unusually warm, we can even call it hot. I took the opportunity to tackle a garden project I would normally have just left until spring, and was out in the yard enjoying the weather, happily puttering.

Two doors down, wearing shorts and tees that would normally have already been resigned to winter storage, two teen girls and a guy took advantage of the sunshine and warmth to wash the family's vehicles in the driveway. There was of course a spray hose involved, and pails and sponges . Inevitably, with happy squeals and giggles, a few water skirmishes broke out.

Then I heard a voice from the garage, where mom was working."Have you guys stopped being productive out there?"

I shuddered, and stopped dead in my tracks.

I am not even quite sure why this struck me as awful at all.Perhaps it was just the word "productive", lumped in my mind with the others that rule my world these days; "goals" and "expectations", that seems to have lost their companions - "achievable" and "reasonable".

Perhaps it was a flashback to times with my own kids at that age and stage, where non productivity made for the happiest and most wonderful of memories. Either way, it left me sad for the family's loss. For the loss of the exuberance of youth, the stifling of impulsive fun; for the loss of a future happy memory.

I just saw a billboard. The caption read "Chase unproductive moments". I am not sure why we now are required to chase what used to come so naturally, but I am sitting up and taking notice. You may want to as well.

Patience is the Key

I lost my keys.
Not lost exactly, but I did not know where they were.

They had to be in the house somewhere, the car was in the garage and that could only be if I drove it in there... with the keys. These things happen when you don't pay attention to the little details in life. There is a disconnect between the brain and the body.

Well my body put my keys somewhere and my brain was not impressed.

As a duly deserved punishment, the body then had to wander the house, looking first in the likely places, then the less likely. I am pretty good at this, I even pick things up and look under them. Round and round the body goes, exhausting first all the probabilities, then on to possibilities, stopping short of the impossibilities because that means looking under the furniture.

Nothing. Hmm.
The world does not end, no sleep is lost, they are somewhere.

By morning however, the brain began to feel some frustration and took the body for yet another loop for a second and third look at all the places I already looked. Round and round. Is this a waste of time? Of course it is.
Checking pockets of coats I wasn't wearing, looking in drawers that I hadn't opened; any observer would note that the body is now in automatic; having learned the routine. The brain revs up trying to remember the exact events following my arrival home.

Ok.
Enough.

Just before the panic began to set in I remembered that there is a spare set to get me out the door and to work, because even a primitive life form eventually learns from past mistakes. Another thing this life form has learned is not to try and force the memory, it is a fragile and sensitive thing and does not respond well to pressure. I left it to percolate for the day, convinced it would eventually spit out the answer I was seeking.

It is very easy, once you begin to get older, to stress forgetfulness; to become concerned that if you continue at this rate you might want to tattoo your own name on your arm, just in case. I prefer to view it simply as a very full mind, like a large room stacked with boxes all stuffed full of memories and information. It is all there, it just takes a bit more effort to dig through it all to find what you are looking for.
Some folks, I think, have nice orderly minds, with alphabetized information, possibly colour-coded memories. Mine is a mess; childhood memories interfiled with useless trivia, old phone numbers and a truly frightening hoard of song lyrics. It may need more time, that's all.

Anyway.
A full 24 hours after my arrival home the answer finally meandered in, and it made perfect sense. My keys were in the trashcan in the garage; dropped there along with the road trip refuse in an uncharacteristic fit of tidiness. The real bonus here is that today was garbage day, and if I had not wasted all that time running around looking for them, I would have had the time to take that can to the curb.

City Streets Part 2

I had opportunity to test my road bemusement today, and failed, miserably.
The geography of this account will be easier for local Winnipeggers to comprehend, but the rest of you are welcome to follow along, as long as you sit quietly and don't rustle papers.

Coming off Disraeli towards Main St; already late for work but expecting a bit of a slower commute during rush hour, the traffic slows to a dead stop.
There is a closed lane. I see a sign, some pylons and a barricade.
Sigh.
It is 4:45

I move over to the still moving lane and roll down the window to enjoy the spring sunshine. I am only about a dozen cars from Main St. Shouldn't be too long, right? The folks in my lane are polite and begin to let the trapped cars in to make the turn, as do I.
The traffic light changes, once twice, five times, and I move ahead one car length.
Sigh.
Beside me have appeared another set of trapped drivers, all eager to get to where they are going. And the polite folks let them in. I have a certain amount of tolerance for these sneaks, I have resorted to this tactic myself on occasion, when in a hurry.
Sigh.
It is 4:55

This is about where the bemusement begins to change to irritation, but the sun is warm and the tunes are blasting; life is good. I have now not moved an inch in 10 minutes. One or two cars get through every light change, but I seem glued to the road where I sit.
Beside me appear another set of trapped drivers. And the generous folks ahead let them in.
Growl.
My relaxed pose is begins to leave me, my irritation is steadily morphing into anger. I glue myself to the car in front of me; inching forward one more car length. I am done being polite.
Growl.
Mutter.
It is 5:00

A few impatient cars leave the turning lane to seek an alternate route, but each is replaced by those goddamn sneaks! The lights change, and again, and again.
I could not see far back, but in 20 minutes I guessed the traffic was likely backed up at least to the middle of the freeway if not all the way back over the river.
Growl.
Mutter.
Curse.
It is 5:05

Finally! I reach the barricade, dying to see why we have been held back for; what monumentally important construction or event has held us all back all this time.

Nothing.
There is nothing, no construction, no event.

I thought about all the irritation yet behind me; all those poor people, waiting, growling, muttering, cursing. For nothing.

On went a big grin and the super cape and out the door I flew.
First the sign,
then the pylons,
then the barricade.. I dragged them all up on the sidewalk;
before the light turned green.

And I didn't feel angry any more.

City Streets Part 1

I don’t have a need for road rage; I do quite well with simple road irritation, or sometimes even road bemusement.

I drive like you are all out to get me, and it sure seems some days like you are. Oh yeah, I will curse loudly and enthusiastically after being cut off, but l think that is just a lingering habit. If you signal left and then turn right, I’ll just be shaking my head and laughing; I expect that sort of thing. If you approach the intersection I am sitting at with your signal on, I will be waiting to be sure you are actually at least slowing for the turn, ‘cause l know you may just want to mess with my head, and possibly my fender.

Besides, whatever idiocy you exhibit, I probably have done it myself at some time. I am a fairly good driver by all accounts, but must admit to the occasional bone-head vehicular maneuver, pissing people off. I have found that nothing irritates that scowling, fist shaking motorist more than flashing them a huge smile and a friendly wave.
Yes…. friendly; as in using ALL your fingers.

For a brief but memorable time I worked as a driving instructor. Donning my super cape I set out, confidant that I could make sure the roads were just a little safer by educating folks how to be great drivers…yup yup. In reality, by the time people actually pay someone to teach them how to drive, they have already explored the do-it-yourself method and failed; repeatedly. Their dad, cousin, sister, and the neighbour have all already thrown their hands up and sent them off to get professional help.
Hiring a professional driving instructor also implies guaranteed success; if they pay for lessons they expect stunning results. I quickly learned that l needed to hang up the cape, to simply teach them how to pass the test, stay alive and not kill anyone.

When I was a kid, dad would pile us all in the car for a Sunday drive. I never just ‘go for a drive’ anymore. I am not sure anyone still does. If you see me driving by, I am definitely on my way TO somewhere. If you see me, give me a big smile and a friendly wave. You know how.

Panhandlers, Drunks and Poor Lost Souls

I was beset last Friday, by a chunky middle-aged fellow with a beefy face, in a shapeless tweedy suit and potentially flammable aura who sat down next to me on the bus bench while I was taking a break at work. The suit had faded into view as he walked down the sidewalk towards me, with only a barely perceptible wobble. His aura wafted in moments later, as he landed heavily on the bench, likely closer to me than his approach had planned for.
“I’m from Shaskatoon” he slurred. His expression turned to surprise as if he had expected to sound better, even to himself. "Oh?"I murmured “that’s nice..”, and he launched into the beginning of what may have been a story or a joke. I wasn’t to find out. With another surprised look, as if summoned by an inner voice he suddenly lurched to his feet ,and without a backwards glance he was gone.

I just smiled and shook my head, but it got me thinking.I am going to miss working downtown.

My employer is soon to transfer us all to the fresh air and wide open spaces out near the airport.
No longer will I be entertained by the daily parade of Gottas; “Gotta smoke?” , “Gotta light?“, “Gotta loonie?” No more of their linguistically adept counterparts who actually manage to at least begin their tale of woe, which generally for some reason involves bus fare, as if going somewhere makes them more worthy of my spare change.

Spare?
As in: can I spare it?
Probably; and I do on occasion but I reserve the right to chose where and when I hand it over. The wearing of a corporate ID is like a magnet to this army of entrepreneurs, as if the fact that I have a job guarantees that I wish to; or am even obliged to share the wealth. One surly panhandler after being denied, peered at my swipe card and growled “ You work for blah-bi-blah.. you have lots of money!”
uh huh. Key word here is work buddy. Try it. If you are down on your luck, I sympathize, but funding the library park’s afternoon sniff circle is not in my budget.

The “Gotta smoke?”s can be more persistent and even dangerous. One poor girl from upstairs in Customs ended up wearing a fist in the face after refusing to hand over a cigarette to a pair of local lovelies. It was 9 am but the party was on… still, or again. I blame the uniform, she looked like a cop.
My own uniform simply makes me look like the mobile information kiosk. “No, I do not know if the 78 bus stops here, I never take a bus” “Yeah, Manitoba Housing is a block up, on the left” .

We used to sit across the street, at the library, but the Gotta traffic there became non-stop. It used to be nice there, if you faced the street you could watch the traffic go by and listen to the birds in the trees. The opposing view into the library windows was alright until one afternoon; after glancing over and catching a glimpse of some guy with zero self control, sitting in the carrels finding a new use for his sock.
Nice..think I’ll face the street, thanks.

I don't mind, really. Whatever floats your boat. Public urination is no biggie; if done with some class... artfully hidden by a tree or surreptitiously behind a building it can convey almost a European charm. Seriously though, if you need to whip it out to piss where you stand, in broad daylight; can you not do it on the footpath from the parking lot blocking my way when I am already late for work? Nope..I can't see missing that.

On the other hand no more will I be daily reminded to appreciate my mental health by those that spend their days wandering out and about the city streets. The mumblers and cursers. The little old Japanese man seen everywhere clutching his radio, constantly fiddling with the knobs. The bright faced chatty loopy girl; always insisting that I smile, and usually succeeding.
I will miss working downtown.
Who is going to remind me to smile?

Obrigado Senhor Saramago

...for the most thought inspiring and engaging novel I have read for a long time.
I had no real intention of blogging on my vacation, but having just finished this last night l felt l wanted to share my thoughts while they were fresh. "Death With Interruptions" by Jose Saramago was thrown into my bag as an afterthought.
The novel opens: THE FOLLOWING DAY, NO ONE DIED. The flyleaf synopsis had already clued me in to the initial premise.. what would indeed happen if people stopped dying.
My mind had already strayed to some of the less desirable consequences of such a happening, but Sr. Saramaga tells a tale beyond my imagining in a style that ensures the reader's complete attention.
The first thing l noticed is his penchant for something near and dear to my heart; he is the master of the run-on sentence, with liberally applied but grammtically correct punctuation. Although there is dialog in the tale, he distains the use of quotation marks; the novel is seperated into chapters but has no paragraphs, requiring one to pay close attention. I loved the challenge. The prose is captivating and each page made me want to take notes to later pursue a secondary train of thought, something l will do when l reread it.
As to the tale itself, I cannot comment too specifically; l would hate to ruin any part of the story, and will only say that what was the expected end for me came already in the middle of the book, and l was incredibly sad when l finished it, not due to the ending but because it had ended.

I Yam What I Yam

First I would like to point out that I never! make New Year's resolutions... ever.
I had learned that not only do you have to face a long haul through the winter to spring, but you have to face it as the world's biggest loser cause of course; you FAIL. New Year's day 2009 however I decided to suck it up and go for it to approach weight loss as a team member with my daughter. "All we need to do is eat properly and exercise" she said.
Well this sounded like a reasonable effort to make so I agreed. I have a history of being not only leading a fairly sedentary lifestyle but also being completely averse to the tedium of exercise. Putting on a big enthusiastic smile I duly signed up for the gym at work (only $65 for the year, easy, convenient) and pirated a Weight Watchers points list.
I am not only lazy, I am cheap too!
Using the list at first to figure out what I was actually eating, then slowly eliminated the really damaging things seemed a logical course of action. I started packing a lunch daily with a defined amounts of points, of some of the things that ended up being staples.
Two things emerged from this practice..
1) I am a huge! fan of that 15 calories per tbsp. Italian dressing.
2) I cook weird shit for myself.
For example, yam soup: one yam, baked to mush, 1 liter no-name chicken broth and about 2 tbsp of dill. This makes 3 portions. Yeah it looks and tastes like baby food, but it fits the bill. How many calories? Nooo idea. I never bothered to figure it out.
Anyway; fast forward. The gym? Nope, that never did work. I actually did end up getting to a slow lope on the treadmill without falling off but in the end the tedium did me in. The eating properly is working, albeit slowly but it is a lifestyle change, not a diet and it is working for me so far.
I do miss fries and gravy...sigh.

What Are! you thinking?

Like those little sparkly lights that appear at the edge of your vision, but disappear when you try to look at them; the thoughts that scamper through my head, particularly when I am not focused on anything are pretty damn hard to pin down.
I know...
I tried...
Hey, it was a slow day !
I can pile them onto my train of thought but you never know where that will end, laying track as I go.
Even at work, where my mind should easily be able to stay on tasks that are familiar, thought banditos regularly threaten to hijack the train. They are hard to shake off, especially when they tempt with a segue to a happy place, the little buggers.
I used to have a worry train. Late at night, when there are no distractions, the monsters would creep in, magnified in the dark - looming large. Whether stressing work, health or the state of the world, they made bedtime an unattractive prospect. They twisted reality and made it hard to sleep. I battled them best as I could, sometimes with sedatives of varying kinds, mostly with the calming voice of a documentary on the History channel.
Sleeping to the nightlight of the nineties became routine. This worked fairly well unless they threw on a war documentary or a commercial of some guy having a heart attack. Nice; just what I need.
Those days are now long gone, thank god. I found that I actually have to steer the train... odd. And the random flitting thoughts? I try to corral em ....so you can get em here first folks!

A Waggy Tale

Set on the scales of public opinion: one money grubbing evil landlord against one sweet lil old grandma, her eyes welling with tears at the prospect of losing her only joy in life, and you have the makings of the next great debate in this city.The poster child for this movement seems to be the poor lil old lady, forced into an apartment, having given her beloved companion over to the murderous folks at the Humane Society.

The local opposition is presenting a bill in Manitoba to force landlords to accept pets in apartment buildings. It matters not that the current wise men in power have already addressed this issue, by sweetening the pot to encourage landlords to accept our four-footed roomies, in an attempt to avoid trampling over the rights of one while supporting those of another. There are already buildings that allow pets, only time will tell if this move will increase their number.

It also matters not that it could just be that sadly grandma needs caring for, in a seniors home, for example. I would certainly hope that such residences would be exempt; the angels of mercy that care for these folks have enough on their hands.

Please don't get me wrong, I am an animal lover. Like these people I had to hand over my best friend once, and it taught me to be very sure if l wanted another pet, that I could commit to that life-long commitment; well in dog years anyway.

I am also a lover of personal freedom, and despite the instinct to protect those big brown eyes and waggy tail, I have to remain on the side of choice.

What do you mean?

I know I meant what I said, but did you understand what I meant?.
The spoken language is mainly what we use to communicate, along with facial expression and body language. It is not perfect, but it is all we have.
The degree of understanding varies with the concept being communicated.
"I'll have Big Mac, fries, and a medium coke" is going to yield pretty predictable results; well I suppose as long as you are actually at McDonald's.
On the other hand, if I say "I'm sorry" it could be interpreted as meaning "omg! I feel so bad that I hurt your feelings, I will never do that again" and actually have been intended as " ffs, I am tired of talking about this, time to change the topic". Or vice versa. How would you know?
I wonder if we were all telepaths, if it would be easier or harder. In a crowded room would the thoughts all be reduced to a jumbled murmur, or would they jostle for attention? Would they be organized and understandable or snatches of phrases mixed with images? Would I really want to know what others have on their minds? You know what I'm thinking; probably not.

The Snork Maiden's Eyes

When I was young I read a story in which the poor Snork Maiden, unsatisfied with her appearance, longed for beautiful eyes like the glamorous figurehead of a ship that had washed ashore. It escapes me for the moment how this was achieved, but she got her wish. Expecting a glamorous new look, she was horrified when the results were not what she expected. The obvious moral here was to be happy with who you are.

I read recently that 'society teaches women to hate their bodies'. I have found that for myself, this has now been reduced this to a simple vague dislike, with rare flashes of 'meh,not bad'.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but what if the beholder is gazing into a mirror? Can we not be happy with who we are?

A 1991 skirmish with Bell's Palsy took a healthy poke at what vanity I had left at the time. I was surprised to find that loved ones were ok with the fact that I looked like a freak. I had promised myself then to allow myself to age gracefully and be at peace with that. Short of a little help from Clairol, I am on track. Even this compromise was delayed until one day the mirror posed the question 'why is there pubic hair growing out of my head?'

Aging bodies are inevitable but it gets harder to look into that mirror, struck with the realization that the the person inside is no longer in synch with the appearance presented to the world.

So what to do? Race for the wrinkle cream, find some altitude and attitude in silicone implants, give your face a lift? For some this is the answer and if it gives them joy, all power to them. If you are however running around with a smooth face atop a chicken neck you're not foolin anyone, ya know. How long can you keep this up? Once your eyebrows disappear into your hairline, you are pretty much done.

Cut yourself some slack; inner happiness oozing to the surface makes a great foundation. A sparkle in your eye goes with any eyeshadow and a spring in your step tones the butt.

We do what we can, right? Eat properly, get enough sleep, and exercise. Just because you look best flat on your back, that is no reason to stay there. At the end of the day, time and gravity will win. And that is ok.

Tpyos dno't Mattre

Typos are the bane of the fumble fingered everywhere.

I suppose I should not complain... a simple backspace is a breeze compared to the white-out or begin-again of the previous option; the typewriter. I am convinced that if I had a laptop instead of that antiquated device available to me in high school, my life would be much different! Cursed with a completely illegible handwriting, I bailed to a Mickey Mouse English course, leaving what I am convinced would have been brilliant essays locked in my busy, if slightly tranquilized mind. Oh yeah... sure Einstien.

Anyway; the matter of typographical errors have produced application imporovements to help us. Predictive text as found in most phones is a great tool not only reducing mistakes but also speeding up texting. Spellcheck where available is also a great help but only works if the mistake is not actually a word.

The folks at BlackBerry must have known know I am a terrible typoist and have included an automatic fix for many of the most common errors, including most contractions. Bless 'em. They forgot my most common one though; oyu still came out looking like oyu until I mamanged to add it to the list.

Our language is not a static entity, it is constantly evolving. There is even a new word to describe words that result from the same combination of numbers; they are called "textonyms".

I think we have all seen this in email form:

"Arocdnicg to rsceearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer are in the rghit pcale. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit pobelrm. Tihs is buseace the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe."

Apparently no such study actually took place at Cambridge, but as this really looks a lot like a badly typoed paragraph it can show that we can communicate just as well sloppily.

I am guilty; there are times when I am fully aware of hitting enter or send knowing there are blunders in my text. I am lazy. Sue me. Conversely I am fully fluent in typoese and will forgive yours and not point them out to you or make fun of you, unless it changes the message at least.

I do agree we need to cherish and nurture our language so it does not morph completely out of recognition. At the end of the day though; I am only trying to communicate and if you understood what I was trying to say, I have achieved success.