Deadline

I was at a writers’ workshop years ago, led by Canadian writer/filmmaker David Bezmozgis, when during the Q&A, a woman in her thirties (with presumably youngsters underfoot) asked him how he keeps his writing on track without looming deadlines. Obviously, she didn’t have a “wife” to take the kids off her hands. As a hungry-to-be-published writer with wavering self-discipline, I was interested in hearing his answer. Bezmozgis replied with a slow eastern-European fatalistic shrug: “You do have a deadline. It’s called death.” I burst out laughing, and have remembered that reply every time I find myself procrastinating.

Inspired by A Tragedy Subverted. Photo by Towfiqu Barbhuiya.

A Tragedy Subverted

How do you follow a story like that?—so tragic and so sweet. And it’s not like this is the first time I’ve been stuck. Nancy once wrote of a snowmobile accident, which I decided to follow up with a similar winter tragedy on Grenadier Pond. Toronto’s mythology practically begins with the tale of the soldiers who fell through its ice on their way to defend Fort York, and searching the Toronto Star archives, I’d found my own tragic tale of two boys who’d told their friends they were skipping school to go skating, and who had never come home.

Wanting to give it a twist, though, I took on the voice of the kid who had snitched to their principal, and so made it into such a jaunty thing that I actually felt some shame for what I had done. What if these two boys missing had actually died? What if they’d never even found the bodies? I felt the boys’ joy as it turned into fear. I felt the anxiety of their families, waiting to hear from the authorities, waiting for someone downtown to find them, or the even longer wait until spring when the pond ice cleared.

Inspired by La Petite Princesse. Image based on this one by Dawn Hudson.

La Petite Princesse

Mary received her cancer diagnosis in the spring. She said she’d never forget, because the drug store she worked at had the “April is Cancer Awareness Month” daffodil poster. My kindest, sweetest cousin by far. Her world ended one afternoon when it was raining outside.
     “What is the weather like, Pauline?” she asked. Then she decided that this was the day she would die. It all made sense because, really, she was not of this earth. If de Saint-Exupéry had picked a girl, it would have been her—crash landing on a planet and staying for fewer than nineteen years.

Inspired by The State of the World. Image from Picture Box Blue.

The State of the World

“Losses and damages are part of our future,” the IPCC chair declared, before asserting that “. . . effective and equitable climate action now can lead to a more sustainable, resilient and just world.” 

     Oh gentle dreamer! All is love and kindness at the principle level, but humanity can’t agree on bupkis when money’s involved. Still, naiveté is preferable to the BS of the deniers and the Koch brothers. Then there are the survivalists, planning to retreat to a Pacific island (really? An island?); or into a walled compound with private security (private contractors, with guns? And families outside?). That can’t end well.

Inspired by Sorry, not today. Image by Sepp Photography. See the IPCC’s Sixth Assessment Report here.

Sorry, not today.

What? My turn again? Crap, that was fast. I’m feeling very uninspired right now. Does it have to be exactly 100 words? And I have to find an image? Oh, that’s just too much. What with the state of the world right now, I feel a headache coming on. Does anybody read this stuff anyway? Can I call myself a writer, if I have no readers? And why do we want to archive every single moment of our lives anyway? Why do we take selfies? I feel this has taken a dark turn. Sorry, I have to lie down now.

Inspired by absolutely nothing. Selfie by Nancy.

Toddle’s Wake

Mom’s favourite Christmas was the one where all I’d wanted in the world was a turtle . . . then a second bargain for my birthday. The first—Tiny—was great fun to play with; but the second—Toddle—did little but loll around under his plastic palm. Still, he held on, until the week we were moving back to Canada and decided it’d be best to set them free in the pond off the highway. Poor Tiny, paddling in small anxious circles staring up at me; while Toddle, possessed with a strange new energy, straight off, leaving us far behind in his wake.

Inspired by Not Kool. Photo—Christmas 1968—by Barbara Schulze.

Not Kool

Mom bought me a turtle because she felt bad. Jonesing for change to buy cigarettes she soon discovered my cherished collection of 50-cent pieces. Money is money, and back then those coin-operated laundromat vending machines didn’t discriminate between two or four bits. When did the remorse set it? When the pull-grind-plop-slide of the dispenser coughed out her ill-gotten Rothmans? After her first drag? As soon as I returned from school? It was a little painted turtle from Woolco. One morning, it died; its dried-out carapace stuck to the ersatz rock in its tiny fake pond. Under the plastic palm tree.

Inspired by The Power of Instinct. Image by WillYouAddToTheStory on Etsy.

The Power of Instinct

She’d crossed thousands of miles of sea to return to the beach of her birth. She was sick and ailing, already dying as she left the water one last time to crawl ashore and nest, trying to give her brood—and her species—a chance at survival. She didn't make it. But the evidence on the beach, the crisscrossing tracks of flipper marks like tire treads, the deep pits in the sand, proved that others of her kind had laid their eggs and returned to the sea. She remained behind. Ashes to ashes: a scavenger had pecked out her eyes.

Photo by the author, taken in Bahia Conejos, Mexico. Inspired by Watching and the rest of our recent eyes + animals stories.

Watching

Procrastinating in my upstairs home office, out the window, I see a rat. Then, in a flurry, the wide wings of a red-tailed hawk enter the frame. Diving low, the hawk throws its talons underneath our back gate, catching the rat in mid scurry. I see only the back of the bird, settling its wings. Then the bird turns, and I have a front row seat as it bends to tear flesh off with its hooked beak and swallow the bloody bits whole. My work forgotten, I have this sudden urge to start narrating in my best David Attenborough voice. 

Illustration of a red-tailed hawk by Marta Lynne Scythes. Inspired by the “eye” stories: A Touching Story and The Dog Ate my Retina.

A Touching Story

One small thing she’d taught him was that it’s okay to touch your eyeball. Be careful, but don’t be squeamish.

     His first girlfriend and her first contacts, constantly stopping along the street, a small mirror from her purse, and a moment to fish out the grit—a useful skill for when they broke up, and he took in a cat to comfort him, a long-haired thing that shared his bed and shed on his pillow. And all that time in front of his bathroom mirror, he thought of her, searching for whatever it was that was making his eyes water.

Inspired by The Dog Ate My Retina. Image by DALL·E.

The Dog Ate My Retina

“Just do the Senior Social Dog bit,” Roy, our editor, suggested, referencing the time I took Nimoosh to an older-dogs-only play session. After I just texted, “Okay, you win”, the white flashes in my left eye intensified. So, it wasn’t because something sparkly was on my eyelash—like salty crud or unicorn tears—after all. Now, back from my emergency eye appointment, I can report that it is all about drying jelly and eyeballs and age. But there’s some serendipity in Roy’s suggestion: I’m getting old like Nimmy, and I prefer the company and activities of bitches my own age.

Inspired by Forward Bound. Image of my retina, courtesy of the University Eye Clinic, Toronto.

Forward Bound

We snowshoe up the ridge, our host leading the way, and in front of him his two Australian shepherds. Frankie, at the tail-end of his puppyhood, gambols ahead then circles back—already obedient to his master’s call, and to the electronic collar that zaps him when he wanders out of bounds. Willow, older, pudgier and with shorter legs, sinks too deep into the snow and tires quickly. Often, like a toddler on a hike, she refuses to move, and plops herself at our feet. Her master nudges her on and, heaving with the effort, we all take another step forward.

Willow on Doug’s feet, photo by Doug Bennet. Inspired by Printemps.

Printemps

Winter navel-gazing has led me to wonder if, at the tender age of 60, my best days are behind me. Have I used up all the good times allotted to me leaving only diminishing returns of mildly-amusing events until the day I cark it? My mood has spread to everyone else in the house, in osmosisy-patches, like whiffs of burning hope. Rich’s stomach hurts. Dan hasn’t picked up his guitar since October. Nim mopes. But this Tuesday we started adoption proceedings for a new pup to take up Siko’s Mantle of Happiness. That was the day the sun came out.

Photo of Nim by Laurie Leclair, styling by Roy. Inspired by Claws Out at the Corpse.

Claws Out at the Corpse

Exquisite Corpse’s drabbleers reached deadlock this week over a proposal to convert their site into a dedicated cat blog. Ron’s threat to quit and start his own non-feline site was dismissed by Roy as “creative differences.” (He was later seen smiling enigmatically and humming “Ob-la-di Ob-la-da” to himself.) “Give peace a chance,” Nancy said, urging mediation. Laurie, lighting a stick of incense, suggested relaxing the all-cat mandate to include dogs. Ron stormed out of their meeting. Observers wondered whether the group’s best days were Yesterday. Perhaps their intractable differences will tip the Drab Four into the litter-box of history.

Inspired by our recent cat madness and the sundry bugs, ants and beatles circling Left Overs. Image by Alfra Martini; compare it to the real Let It Be cover here.

Left Overs

The rented house my mother moved us into after the divorce had been empty of humans for years. In this absence others had laid claim to it—scurrying feet and squeaks inside the walls and above our heads in the attic; tiny beetles up through the drains in the bathroom—sharp black against the chipped white porcelain; and in the kitchen sink among the dirty dishes, left there sometimes for hours until my sister and I finished arguing about whose turn it was to wash them, a hoard of minuscule ants feasting on crumbs, living on left overs like us.

Inspired by just wanting to get off the cat track. Image by DALL-E.

Cat Story

On the rebound, the newly single man takes on a cat. Then a kitten. Then a new girlfriend. She moves in, they move out, start a home, have a kid—and each step along the way, the cat expresses a displeasure that grows until they simply can’t bear to have her around anymore. This, says the lady running the shelter, is a story she’s heard many times before, to the point she’s reluctant to adopt her cats to single men, but can’t take his in because she’s all full up, and besides the poor old thing would miss him terribly.

A prequel to Tomorrow, I guess. Image by Craiyon.

Quean

Willow is a 19-year-old tabby. That’s 92 in people years. She is still kittenish. Her brother Badger looks like someone made a pelt out of Gordon Lightfoot. How can it be that this eight-pound bundle of claws and micturition stays so young? I think I’ve figured out her secrets:

1. Ask for what you want.
2. Don’t overeat. If you do, throw it up.
3. Don’t hide your light under a bushel: Get involved, stay involved.
4. Don’t hold your pee. Go when you need to, where you need to.

I’ll be following Willow’s life lessons. Apart from the bulimia.

Image by Angelika Betzold. Inspired by Noah Was Not a Cat Person.

Noah Was Not a Cat Person

“Berth the aardvarks on Deck C,” Noah told his son Shem. “They won’t cause trouble with the turtles.”
     He looked up at the sky. Thirty-nine days now, without let-up.
     Japheth rushed up. “Father, you still haven’t boarded the cats!”
     Irritated, Noah looked down at his manifest. Cats again.
     “They’ll make excellent mousers on the voyage,” Japheth wheedled.
     Noah sighed. No one else understood God’s plan, not even his cat-loving son.
     “Alright,” he said, suddenly inspired. “Have them board tomorrow. Later in the day . . . 11 p.m. Let’s see . . . hmmm. Yes. Put them on Deck E, between the jackals and the wolves.”

Inspired by Cat Woman. Image by James Edwin McConnell.

Cat Woman

Her falling-down house has lots of rooms with lots of doors to slam. High perches, sunny corners, and low hiding spots for the cats to explore abound—a feline playground stocked well with scurrying mice. His and her raised voices rattling old skeletons caused the tabbies to disappear for days, and now that all the closets are empty and his stuff thrown out, the cats have even more space to wander. But instead they slink back to her in the too-quiet night, two warm vibrating hearts on the couch—their paws stretched out to touch—to reassure their frail human.

Inspired by Tomorrow, I guess (which slightly appalled Nancy). Drawing by Nancy.

Tomorrow, I guess.

A fine project to tackle between Christmas and New Year’s, with the family out of town, and far too much time to fret over my approach: “I’d like to . . . I want to . . . I need to have my cat put down”
     She’s not all that old. She’s probably not sick. It’s mostly she’s driving us crazy and ruining our home. But here I’m still stuck on the fact she’ll be killed on my say-so. “An overdose of narcotics,” the receptionist tells me rather matter-of-factly, directly into the vein, by appointment only.
     “Tomorrow, I guess. But not too early.”
     “Noon?”
     “That’s fine.”

Inspired by Auld Lang Sigh. Image by Craiyon.

Auld Lang Sigh

Apparently we begin our New Year with Intentions rather than Resolutions. Intentions are lovely, cuddly wishes, and whisper aims and goals softly, “I’m going to be gentler with myself” or “I will set boundaries on my energy-bank.” Whereas NYE Resolutions of yore, with their penitential proclamations like “NO MORE BOOZE UNTIL MARCH” or “YOGA EVERY DAY!” come across as too harsh, almost judgy. So, in an attempt to be current, I’ll swipe tentatively from today’s more palatable butter board zeitgeist. Here are my 2023 Intentions: Be Kinder, Live Lighter, Work Smarter. See? Flabby and nebulous. Kinda like my post-Christmas chin.

Inspired by The New Year’s Pre-Party. Image by Valio84sl on Dreamstime.

The New Year’s Pre-Party

“Let’s ride,” War said, emptying his cup into the fire. “We’ve got work to do.”

     “I’m still peckish,” Famine said. “Let’s finish the wheat before we head out.”

     “If we do, there won’t be any for Lebanon . . .” 

     All four horsemen laughed raucously. 

     “Mind if I bring another ‘friend’ this year?” asked Pestilence.

     “Bah! Your friends always wimp out.”

     “This one’s a finisher.”

     War rolled his eyes as he climbed onto his horse; there was an immediate rumble in far-off Ukraine.

     “Guys! Wait up . . .” 

     Death hadn’t even saddled his horse yet! Typical, thought War. He’s always the last to the party. 

Image by Bryant Arnold, Cartoonaday.com. Inspired by Black Swans and, well, the newspaper.

My Husband Helps Flood the Ice Rink

Four times over the holidays he has abandoned the warmth of my bed to visit her—his winter mistress. He is but one of her minions who bathe her daily, smooth her furrows, see to her ablutions. A cold demanding creature, she soaks in all that they give her and asks for more. Nothing will do except the sheer perfection of her icy skin. But I know this love affair is as variable as the weather. She runs hot and cold. And with the final thaw, he will return to me, though a little heartbroken and dreaming of next winter.

Inspired by Winter. Image by Doug Bennet.

God Father Christmas

Graham’s Christmas letters were always neatly typed and funny enough that, even as a kid, I looked forward to reading them. Back in Canada, he had hoped one day to be a playwright, but ended up living illegally in New York, taking on a series of editing contracts that even he found too dull to describe in any detail. He was my godfather, although I doubt he remembered. He took on the responsibility only after my mother promised she’d never hold him to it, and skipped the ceremony, concerned that he wouldn’t be able to get back across the border.

I was enthralled by this man I’d never met, by the letters, by his hand-painted postcards, the random photos in the family album growing up with my mother, the trick shot he took of himself looking unimpressed by his new toupée. When I thought I might want to be a writer myself, I worked up a fantasy of dropping by his apartment and introducing myself. I was going to dedicate my first science-fiction novel to this illegal alien, until the day he took a ferry to one of the more isolated islands near his favourite city, and the letters stopped.

Inspired by Minuit Crapaud. Photo by Graham Murray with himself, circa 1957.

Minuit Crapaud

One minute after Tante Annemarie arrived on our porch dressed in Santa drag, I had my doubts. These were confirmed later in the evening when I snuck downstairs to see the back of Fake Santa, a Benson and Hedges wedged between red manicured fingers, drawing a pull from a stubby and watching the game. From what I was led to believe from television and Kresge’s, Santa smoked pipes. He didn’t drink beer, he didn’t wear a cheap-ass wig and he didn’t smell like Rive Gauche. Yet a glimmer of hope survived: I knew Santa, like dad, was a Habs fan.

Inspired by Christmas Came Early at Our House. Photo by Norman Potter of the Daily Express.

Christmas Came Early at Our House

“Santa comes in the night, so don’t get up till it’s light out,” Mum said, standing. “Sleep well.” Seven-year old me tingled. I knew I wouldn’t be going to ssssszzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZ . . .

I awoke to a dim light seeping around our door. The house was silent. I remembered Mum’s specific words: till it’s daytime.
     Well, dawn is still day, I reasoned, thinking like a lawyer. I kicked my brother Gord in the back, shouted “IT’S CHRISTMAS!” and dashed down the hall. Yes, Santa had come! And my insomniac Dad was reading on the couch under the swag lamp. It was 3:00 A.M.

Inspired by Like in the Magazines. Image by Pathos Media.

Like in the Magazines

I was making the wreath—you know, the one with the pom poms? But I burned myself with the hot glue gun. So I ditched that idea and then I thought I'd do something simple—like print my own wrapping paper, like on Youtube. But I cut myself making the potato stamps and bled all over the craft paper. It’s not funny. No, no, I am not crying—that would be stupid. I just wanted Christmas to be perfect for once—like in the magazines. Can you just come and pick me up? I’m at the ER; I needed stitches.

Inspired by the annual holiday anxiety I feel kicking in right about now. Image by Craiyon.

Oh, that’s just Tom.

For a while there, Tom was the veteran of Tech Support, hired by Rambunctious Software back when it was just two developers, three telephone lines, and 435 customers starving for his attention.
     He worked there for ages, cranky and largely ignored, but surely the world’s authority on R-Mail—or Err-Mail, as he’d started to call it.

     In the end, he knew more about its many problems than the developers themselves—and constantly reminding them pretty much guaranteed he’d have stayed forever on the phones, talking down another frantic sysadmin as she watched two-year’s worth of messages vanish from her server.

But that’s the thing, those early days just naturally attracted an exciting crowd of talented misfits, cranky and mouthy, but good at pretty much anything. The problems came only when things started getting Corporate, and Management arrived to work their eccentric systems and find us some better employees–like the guy with the speech impediment they hired to work the phones, the accountant who paid bills twice, and person after person who’d show up for orientation and never return.
     The only solution, clearly, was to hire a proper HR Specialist, who promptly fired the talented misfits, and promoted the freaks.

Inspired by Romeo Oscar NOVEMBER. Image by DALL-E.

Romeo Oscar NOVEMBER

I learned the NATO alphabet at fifteen, and it’s come in darn handy since. Airlines use it, military types, logisticians. It saves a lot of time. But apparently, it’s not used in call centers. 

     “Can you spell that?”

     “Arr. Oh. En. Ron. RON.” 

     “Juan?”

     “No. Ron. Ronald.”

     “Mister Rommel?”

     “Ronald.”

     “Romald.”

     “Not M as in Mike. N as in November.”

     There is confusion on the line. 

     “I will spell it phonetically. Romeo. Oscar. N as in November. Alpha. Lima. Delta.”

     “Romeo Oscar?”

     “YES!”

     “Romeo. Middle name Oscar, last name November?”

     “No. First name Ron. Romeo, Oscar, then N as in . . .”

Image by Wavebreak Media. Inspired by November 2020 Remembered and a series of recent lengthy exchanges with call center operators.

November 2020 Remembered

On this dark pandemic morning,
I vacillate on the edge of a dream —
unwilling to move forward, unable to rest within
I unwrap in increments.

I vacillate on the edge of a dream
of you and me cradled in a warm ocean.
I unwrap in increments —
unravel; dissolve; disappear. I feel

you and me cradled in a warm ocean,
but we had to cancel, like so many of our plans —
left behind to unravel, dissolve, disappear. I feel
the cold slap as my feet hit the floorboards

And so I remain unwilling to move forward,
but unable to stand still.

Inspired by dull November mornings. Photo by Nancy.

Back on Buses

I hadn’t ridden the streetcar for a few months, but just enough time for them to install a camera near the driver and two by the rear doors  . . . which wouldn’t have struck me as particularly significant had I not just listened to a documentary on our uncritical acceptance of the Surveillance Society, and were I not eavesdropping myself on two streetcar drivers slagging the new guy—“you know, the one who came up from buses.”
     “He’s been there for something like twenty years, but he’s stupid and he’s arrogant and, you’ll see, he’ll be back on buses in a month.”

Inspired by English Channel no. 5. Photo by Paul Borkwood, CBC news.

English Channel no. 5

What with the storm outside and its contents of soggy-mac’d Septuagenarians, our tour bus windows steamed up like a hammam. Once inside, the vehicle held a particular scent: A bridge-mix of waxed coats, Cadburys, peppermint chewing gum and warm genealogists’ heads. A singular perfume called Leger Tour or simply Remembrance. Did it intensify with collective tension as we three relatively youthful Canadians alighted to visit the German graves at Langemark? We were the only ones to do so. Was it the pelting rain, the exhaustion of touring dozens of battlefields and cemeteries? Or something else? I can still smell it. 

Image from the Nova Scotia Archives. Inspired by Remembrance.

Remembrance

Dad talked little about the war, though the bits of shrapnel that erupted periodically from his arm spoke volumes. He told me two sanitized close call stories. Once, riding messages back from the OP, a German sniper targeted him. Dad slew his Norton into a ditch and scrambled for cover. Soon the infantry came up, he recovered his motorbike, and carried on, lah-di-dah. Later, his CP took a direct hit. Dad crawled out, saw his pal pinned under a massive rafter, and lifted it off. His lieutenant stared open-jawed at his strongman feat. It was adrenaline, Dad confided to me.

Inspired by Veterans and this Remembrance Day. The image is of my father as a young gunner, 15th Field Regiment, RCA.

I am so tired of politics

It was close to eleven, when he came into the room. I had gone to bed early, trying to avoid the repetitive media coverage, the on-air pundits yammering away. I roused when he turned on his bedside light.
     “Did he win?” I murmured.
     “Yeah, it wasn’t even close.” He began undressing.
     “Ugh.” I pulled the covers over my face, pondering the news coverage and social media trolling that would come. “Wake me up in four years.”
     “I just don’t understand how stupid people can be—” He began to rant. I grabbed a pillow and hit him over the head.

Inspired by Nick’s Son? Photo by Roy Schulze.

Nick’s son?

To get some idea of how much a seven-year-old cares about politics, I think back to 1968 when I—having recently moved to the States—confidently told one of my new friends that Canada’s Prime Minister had the very same name as his President. John-son and Pear-son, after all, were close enough to make no difference, and—although still in the thrall of expo67—I’d clearly missed the whole Trudeamania thing.
     Then, as if to make things worse, I voted for Nixon in our pretend class election . . . though not nearly as worse as the one kid who voted for Wallace.

Inspired by Vote for Peanut. Images from Getty by way of New York magazine.