The Twelve Labours of Sophie

My neighbour and I have an agreement: I promise to never, ever let my dogs near her lawn. She, in turn, will keep me abreast of her daily pains: her back, her legs, her neighbours, litterbugs, animals. What past murderous deed warranted such trials?

Our relationship stayed the same for years. Until we met on Fern Avenue last Sunday morning. We were both heading to Roncesvalles. Sophie’s walker pell-melling it to St. Casimir and keeping pace with Nim’s sniff-and-stroll. All was fine until Misko let forth with a Cerberus-worthy turd. Hardly a golden apple, but enough to make her suffer.

Inspired by In Gods They Trust. Image found on Pinterest (uncredited) with edits by the author and Roy Schulze.

In gods they trust

Zeus stepped out onto the balcony, leaving Europa asleep, tangled in the sheets. He relished nights on Olympus, the cool air, the stars overhead, and the quiet, broken only by the raucous noise of mortals far below. Such foolish, trusting creatures, believing their times of plenty would never end! And they wouldn’t, so long as they put their faith in Infallibles like him.
      He caught a whiff of smoke, noticed a red glare on the horizon, heard screams. And then he remembered. Oh, crap! In his haste to seduce a new mistress, he’d left a fire burning in Athens.

Inspired by Out of luck at the Soup Kitchen. Image of Zeus and Europa, by altceva.

Out of luck at the Soup Kitchen

We run out of soup and have to scramble to replenish trays, plates and cutlery. They keep coming. Have the holes in our safety net grown? Are more people falling through? I see the frayed edges of lives barely held together. The relentless slog from soup kitchen to food bank and back again wears on them. But they are us, without the lucky breaks. Some barely speak. Some won’t shut up. Some laugh too loudly. Some scream. Most indulge in petty dramas. But all, conditioned long ago by mothers and kindergarten teachers, never fail to say please and thank you.

Inspired by In a Time of Hunger. Photo by Nancy Kay Clark

In a time of hunger

In a time of hunger

there is much abundance which cannot be reached,

there are memories of uncertain times,

there are barren gardens beside deep luxuriant pools.

In a time of hunger

politicians and psychics

predict financial hardships and broken hearts,

encourage our fears then charge us

for false spirits to cure them away,

offer their red hands full of hopes and prayers.

In a time of hunger what can be done? I have

no media prowess nor extrasensory powers

so I fight

the politicians and psychics

with a rich harvest, flowers from a friend and

love on a wing.

Inspired by Our Drug of Choice. Photo by Fred Ni.

Flash in the Pan

No one uses flashlights anymore. We all use our phones. So boring and dull. Flashlights tap into our imaginations. Revealing the obvious and conjuring up the unseen. Giving permission to our minds to percolate on subconscious fears. Flashlights remind us of camping, dark starry nights, and horror movies. A rush of adrenaline as we anticipate what may lay behind their last shimmer of light.

Flashlights led us to personal connections with other humans. Guiding us to familiar faces. Showing us the way to our neighbours, friends, family—our community. Not alone, texting mindlessly by the halo of blue light. 

Inspired by August 14, 2003. Photo by Wendelin Jacober.

August 14, 2003

The power had been out since four and, being there was nothing else to do in the house, I decided to grab a flashlight and follow my curiosity down to the lake, hoping to see the stars freed from the dimness we city-folk accept as dark . . . and Mars, of course, which had been in the news for a week, the nearest to Earth it had been in the last 60,000 years, a little orange dot dancing through the trees as I walked along the shore, hanging over the dark downtown, brighter even than the aircraft warning lights, higher than the towers.

Inspired by the anniversary of the 2003 Blackout and maybe a bit by the 1990 Blackout. Photo by Lucas Oleniuk for the Toronto Star.

Rose City Barbies

Ken’s head made a satisfying pop when pulled from his body, followed by a delicious squish-squash as molars met polyvinyl chloride. I loved decapitating Ken, but it came at a price. One day, me and the other Douillard Road guttersnipes were playing Barbie-Goes-to-the-Circus. We used the sewer drain as a tightrope. After a death-defying leap, Ken landed safely on the curb but his now-bobbling noggin splashed into the abyss. With a coat hanger and a deft hand, mom retrieved it. It poached for weeks in a jar of alcohol. Afterwards, Ken was only a pale version of his former self.

Inspired by Our Drug of Choice. Image by Passagems on Etsy.

Our Drug of Choice

Wildfires have scorched thirteen million hectares in Canada. Thousands of people have been evacuated from their homes. Floods sweep away bridges, roads, children. Overseas, it’s fifty degrees Celsius in some Iranian cities. Super-charged typhoons inundate China. The sea off Florida is warmer than a hot tub. The UN Secretary General just announced that Earth has passed beyond warming into an era of global boiling.

     Lobster, anyone? 

     Oh, don’t think about that! Be happy! Beyoncé’s tour is incredible, and Taylor Swift is coming! And those summer blockbusters . . . catch them all before it’s too late!

     This summer, we've swapped hopium for Barbieturates.

Inspired by Little Sadists. Photo by Sofia Furió.

For a sense of scale, thirteen million hectares is the size of Greece—which has also suffered devastating wildfires this summer.

Little Sadists

That summer, I remember the grasshoppers were so plentiful in our suburban yard that clouds of them flew out of the way of my father’s lawn mower. We caught them and put them in jars with little bits of grass, punching air holes through the lids, but not bothering to feed them. I remember they bled an oozy yellow, when we pulled their legs off. Better yet, in those long hot afternoons of childhood boredom, curiosity and sadism, we offered our hoppers to any mantises we found and watched the praying arms grasp the frantic hopper and bite deep.

Inspired by Baby Bummer (via Beatles = beetles = bugs). Photo by Jon Brierley .