Member Bio: Donna Marrin
Donna Marrin works as an advertising/corporate communications writer and editor, most currently as the Senior Copywriter/Editor for a leading Canadian retail chain.
Donna established the Markham Village Writers’ Group in September of 1999, for the benefit of adults sharing her passion for writing. The group’s mission: To inspire each other to write regularly.
In 2004, Donna arranged a collaboration of the Markham Village Writers and the Markham Group of Artists to produce an anthology of short fiction and full-colour, juried artwork, The Collected Works, distributed throughout York Region and catalogued in Library and Archives Canada.Donna also volunteered for three years as editor and contributing writer for the Markham Arts Council publication, Arts In Motion.
To celebrate the MVWG’s 10th Anniversary in 2009, Donna launched the ezine-style website, www.markhamvillagewriters.com. The site showcases the work of members, provides an ongoing directory of literary events taking place in Markham and surrounding areas, and features interesting information and helpful resources for writers.
Donna’s publication credits include creative non-fiction, informational articles, poetry and short fiction published in the Canadian Writer’s Journal, a Prevention Magazine special edition book, the 2008 and 2009 business editions of Superbrands Canada coffee table books, CanadaOne.com business ezine, Absolute Write ezine, Mocha Memoirs literary ezine, and numerous other publications. Donna is currently working on a variety of writing projects.
Mackie Award Winner,
2010 Markham Arts Council
At a reception held at the Varley Art Gallery in Unionville on Sunday, April 11th, Donna accepted her Mackie Award, which she won for her contribution to literary arts in the community.
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Power Lost, Humanity Gained: The Blackout of 2003
By Donna Marrin
Everyone but me—because I hadn’t any doubt
That this massive power mishap would (BONUS!) pave the way
For my boss to make the call: “We’re shutting down early today.”
The lack of traffic lights left many drivers in despair,
‘Common sense amnesiacs’ that inched along in fear.
It took an hour longer to meander my way home,
Weaving round the drivers absorbed by their cell phones.
Still, ‘twas a lovely afternoon and my glee was here to stay,
Since ‘no power’ meant: no way to cook or wash a load this day!
With sandwiches for dinner and some still-cold pints of beer,
I joined my spouse and kids outside, on my reclining chair.
The luscious scent of grilling meat spiced the outdoor air,
Neighbors chatted o’er fences; bursts of laughter, here and there.
No power meant No computers, stereos, video or TV,
Bewildered children awakened slowly from their techno-sleep.
For the first time in a long time, all ages played outdoors,
Touch football, hide-and-seek, just like the days of yore.
Armed with flashlights in the streets, as darkness inked the skies,
The children laughed and shrieked and whirred about like fireflies.
And once indoors, the blackness ebbed to amber candlelight,
Card games were played by lantern till time to say goodnight.
Climbing into bed, I realized how relaxed I was,
My mind at peace, my eyes at rest, so blatantly because
We’d traveled back in time—a phenomena so rare,
No form of mod technology had trapped us in its snare…
Artificial entertainment that we’ve bought into for years.
Initially, power loss had simply meant a ‘work vacation,’
But as the lazy hours passed — Behold! — A revelation:
Our collective reliance on technology as a nation,
Holds us captive; lambs for slaughter in our humble desperation.
Progression or regression? We’ve long surrendered to machines,
Forgot the joys of simple living, the way life used to be.
We can’t go back, but maybe, every summer, for a day,
We can blow the power lines again — go back to yesterday.
I Wish
By Donna Marrin
If I were to:
Wish upon the brightest star,
catch fireflies inside a jar,
ditch my car and ride a bike,
switch ‘hell’ and ‘damn’ with ‘rats’ and ‘yikes,’
Race outdoors to build a fort,
guzzle Kool-Aid by the quart,
play marbles with the kid next door
and hopscotch, till my feet are sore
Read the comics, not the news,
live in scruffy running shoes,
Saturday mornings, watch cartoons,
make farting noises with balloons,
Make sure I’m indoors every night,
upon the glow of outdoor lights,
fight to stay up really late,
ignorant of time or date,
Do some homework every day,
but always find the time to play.
Do you think if that is what I did,
I could just go back and be a kid?
I wish…
The Snowstorm
By Donna Marrin
Toasty little flannelled feet,
Tiptoe across the nursery rug,
Busy, dimpled starfish hands
Give the drapery cords a tug.
The amber glow of streetlamp light,
Illuminates two widened eyes,
That dance, as icing-sugar spills
In silence, from the murky skies.
Cheeks a-bloom like scarlet roses,
Button nose pressed to the glass,
As God’s vanilla frosting
Spreads itself across the once-green grass.
A gleeful gasp of baby’s breath,
Behold the wondrous sight below!
God has closed his doors above,
And scattered stars upon the snow!
As the sun begins its rise
Over dips and peaks of whipping cream,
Nanny finds, upon the sill,
Her charge, curled ‘round a winter dream.
My College Girl
By Donna Marrin
Two years have passed quicker than a sigh since my baby girl left home to embrace campus life. The fact that she found it so effortless to sever what was left of the umbilical cord between us speaks volumes about my child-rearing skills. As they say, “you must give them roots and wings.” I accomplished that task easily enough. The real hardship is in trying to grow wings of my own.
She doesn’t call as often as I’d like her to, caught up as she is in her exciting whirlwind of a life, so when the phone rings and I hear her voice chirping from the answering machine, I toss aside my newspaper, leap from my wing chair and scramble to reach the phone before she hangs up.
I greet her with laughter in my voice. It always happens like this: a cascade of questions flood my mind, surging dangerously like a great tsunami toward my lips. I struggle to keep the dam barricaded. If I slip and the questions break free, I know she will fly quickly above the tide, receding with it to her perch on the other side of the ocean that separates us.
Instead, I try my best to spin interesting stories about an uninteresting week, hoping this will be enough to keep her on my side of the ocean for now.
In return, she spins stories of her own, feeding me safe snippets of a life that, I have no doubt, is far more exciting than I’d ever care to know.
We laugh together as she relates a lecture hall incident. Since I’ve been a pretty cool cat so far—no gifts of unsolicited advice that will ruffle any feathers—the olive branch she extends is my reward. She tells me about a boy. A boy with soft, brown eyes and a talent for clever banter. He makes her laugh. Oh my; how the dam ruptures!
I need to know… His name—first and last—the colour of his hair—his career aspirations—his family pedigree.
Soft, brown eyes and a great sense of humour is simply not enough to keep a tsunami in check.
I can almost hear the squeak of her eyes as they roll in their sockets. I’ve blown it.
There is nothing more to tell. He’s just a boy.
The wave crashes onward. What about your test?—Essay grades?—You missed a class? Why?—Walking alone at night… Are you mad? —You spent how much this week?—You’re not coming home till when?
She halts me with a sudden urgency to prepare for her next class. Her tone is abrupt and final. The reckless swell settles immediately into a drip, drip, drip of dismal regrets.
The phone lines bulge and ripple with hurried exchanges of I Miss You. I Love You. We disconnect, flying back to our separate shorelines.
Baby bird has mastered the art of flight, but
Mama bird still has much to learn.
The Ice-Cream Truck
By Donna Marrin
It was such a long, long time ago
When summers crept by, long and slow.
Breakfast done, outdoors we’d play,
Till street lamps signaled end of day.
Building forts from lumber scraps,
With trash-bin treasures filling gaps.
Sprawled supine upon the grass,
Watching Heaven’s candy floss drift past.
Flushed with the joy of heavy play,
Anticipating that time of day
When abandoning our mud-pie muck,
We’d flee to greet the ice-cream truck.
Distant bells upon the breeze,
Meant tearing home for nickels, please!
A jostling line aside the road,
We’d await the truck; its cool, sweet load.
It wasn’t just the treats inside,
That stoked our grins and pie-plate eyes,
But the sensory amalgamation…
It fed a mood of pure elation.
Organ tunes so sweet and merry,
Twinkling lights in pink and cherry,
A replica ice-cream sundae stood
In lifelike splendor on the hood.
Gold letters glittering in the sun,
Spelled “Mmm…Good Eats For Everyone!”
Jolly laughter on the breeze,
Gus: ‘the man‘ and goofy tease.
One by one, we’d pay our dimes,
Then, up into the truck we’d climb.
Rooting through the freezer bins,
While Gus beamed his plump-cheeked grin.
Clutching treasures cold and sweet,
Leaping back into summer heat.
With a chuckle an d a friendly wave,
Gus would t
oot the horn, then roll away.
Before he’d disappeared from sight,
We’d peeled, unwrapped and savored bites.
With sticky hands and chocolate faces,
Back to forts and far-off places.
How I miss those ice-cream days.
The Big Bang
By Donna Marrin
I clutched the envelope in my trembling hands, willing the letter inside to tell me what I wanted to hear while I avoided tearing it open.
I had been badgering the Big Guy for at least the past thousand years or so to consider my plea for retirement. Not only am I weary right through to the marrow of my bones; I am bored stiff as well. It’s not easy to be creative in a job that you’ve been performing over and over and over again for longer than you can even begin to remember.
I pinched around the envelope, trying to gauge how many sheets of paper might be in there. It seemed an awfully thin package—God knows, it only takes one sheet of paper to say the word, “No.”
Unshed tears burned behind my eyelids at the thought of another rejection. Over the past decade, the midnight blue of my melancholy has seeped out regularly to stain the canvas of my labours.
My heart just isn’t into the sunny yellows and sky blues anymore. I’m feeling more ash greys, charcoals and dirty umber these days. Less warmth, more cold. A surge in my tearful exhalations. All for naught.
None of my rebellions have been bold enough to prod the Big Guy into relenting.
My sigh ripened into a strangled moan as I plucked at the envelope’s golden seal. My damp fingers slid the single translucent sheet of parchment from its holder and I gently smoothed it open on my lap.
The proof of my misjudgment caused me to gasp aloud, for there, at the top of the page, two words in delicate, swirling calligraphy leapt forth:
“Very well.”
I turned my head to the side briefly so my joyful tears wouldn’t mar the precious missive. Quickly swiping the back of my hand over my eyes, I resumed reading His tidy, gold script.
“My dearest Mother Nature. It is with felicitations and great sorrow that I release you from the significant role you have performed with exceptional dexterity for all of eternity. Tomorrow, you shall receive your release forms by courier dove, along with formal authorization to execute a final act of mass destruction, upon which your tour of duty will end. You have been an exemplary servant and I shall miss you. Go forth and go out like the regal lion you are. And do enjoy your much-deserved rest.
Bless you, my dear,
God
Mama Mia!
By Donna Marrin
When David Letterman announces her name, the people go ballistic for their beloved golden girl. Applause erupts with the force of a volcano as she ducks out from behind the curtain, strolling gracefully across the stage toward him.
Her lustrous hair has been carelessly (carefully) gathered into a ponytail by her personal hairstylist and her expertly made up face is fresh and youthful. She glows.
A slip of gossamer champagne fabric hugs the toned curves of her body, shimmering under the hot, studio lights, so that she almost appears nude, ethereal. The delighted gasp of the male portion of the audience is audible, while the females among them excrete a fusion of longing and loathing as their eyes track the subtle sway of her hips.
She transports a designer-clad toddler in the crook of one arm while manoeuvring a towheaded preschooler, who stumbles along while peering intently at the floor. The roar of applause persists as she settles into the guest chair, plunking the toddler onto one crossed knee while directing the elder child to climb onto the chair beside her. She beams at the audience, sweeping them with her lilac blue eyes, then directs a dimpled smile at Dave.
“Nanny out on the town tonight?” Dave quips and the applause morphs into laughter.
“No nannies for me, Dave,” she purrs. “I insist on taking care of my precious babies all on my own, thank you very much.” She punctuates her statement by warmly embracing her toddler, who squirms and whimpers. The audience laughs and applauds. Her knee begins to bounce as she tries to distract the fussing toddler. The preschooler continues to stare at the floor, sucking quietly on three fingers.
The very beautiful, very bankable major motion picture star turns to Dave, bending forward slightly so that one can’t help but notice the luscious, surgically perfected globes not quite hidden behind the chubby toddler. She proceeds to dish openly about her quite average but exhausting daily routine: getting the kids up and dressed every morning, preparing all of their meals, ferrying them to play dates, while having to get to the set on time… you know, just the normal working mommy stuff. As a matter of fact, just this morning, she and her very handsome, very bankable motion picture star husband were discussing their desire to begin working on baby number three, just as soon as they both wrap up their latest films. The audience roars their approval and she smiles at them, draping her arms around both of her children. The toddler stiffens and his quiet mewling swells into a shriek. In a soothing tone, she shushes him while nuzzling his neck with her perfect nose. The assistant director signals a commercial break, and Dave angles toward camera number two.
“We’ll be right back with the delightful … right after this message.”
The instant the camera pans away, a stout woman with furrowed brow darts from behind the curtain and hurries across the stage toward the children. Dave takes a generous sip of scotch from his mug, while he appreciates a perfect side view of his distracted guest’s breast as her dress strap slips a bit on her shoulder.
The grimacing star holds a now kicking and screaming toddler out and away from her.
“Hurry the hell up, Consuelo,” she snarls through a tight grin. “And get this little prick off of me before he completely destroys my Versace!”
The preschooler shimmies from his chair and dashes to the clucking woman, throwing his arms around her legs. His mother’s stunning violet eyes glare in his direction, then up at the nanny. “And what in Christ’s name have you been doing with Jonathan? He just sits there like a mute. Make an appointment for him next week with my therapist.”
She turns away from the retreating nanny and children with an air of dismissal, smoothes her dress over her thighs, re-crosses a ten-million-dollar leg, and leans in toward Dave.
“Effing kids,” she snorts. “Thank God I’m flying back to Rome tonight.”
The busy assistant director signals the countdown. Dave clears his throat and grins.
Three, two, one… “And we’re back with everyone’s favorite movie star mom…”
Together Again
By Donna Marrin
Sadie ruffles the child’s red curls before stooping to mop up the pool of chocolate milk splattered on the kitchen floor.
“I’m sorry, mama,” a timid voice pipes from overhead. Sadie sighs and her brow relaxes at the sight of the small feet dangling above the floor.
“It’s ok, Timmy. It was just a little accident. Finish up your dinner now.” As she wrings out the towel over the sink, her eyes dart toward the clock.
“Oh, God, he’s gonna be home soon,” she groans under her breath, returning quickly to clean up the remaining mess. She is almost done when she hears the front door slam. Her head snaps up and her heart flutters wildly in response to the thunder of boots meeting her spotless linoleum.
“Well, well. What’ve we here?” The low, lazy drawl slithers over her scalp, around her neck, down her spine, like something dank, reptilian. She scrambles to finish, sopping away the last of the milk, then tilts her chin up, blows at a few tendrils of hair that have fallen over her eye, and smiles at the bear of a man towering above her.
“Oh, this? This is nothing. I just knocked over Timmy’s milk by mistake. But we’re all good now.” She jumps up quickly and on trembling legs, swivels to rinse the chocolate-stained towel at the sink. Attuned to the silence, she runs a dry tongue over her lips.
“So, Pete…did you have a good day?”
The blow to her head is unexpected. It sends her stumbling sideways across the room, the sodden towel sailing in the opposite direction to drop with a wet thud by the baseboard. Her hip slams into the floor and the stunning surge of pain steals her breath and makes her curl into herself like a centipede.
The drawl becomes a snarl. “Yeah. I had a good day. Till now. Till I came home to my goddam slob of a wife.”
Lucidity returns to Sadie in a great gush at the sounds of the frightened whimpering building in intensity from behind the kitchen table. His roar is a clap of thunder sent down from the heavens, if there is such a place. “You are your mother’s child. Quit your whining, you little wimp. Either shut up or get the hell outta here.”
Fear leaches into every pore and parches her throat until she hears the fading patter of Timmy’s Sponge Bob slippers as he dashes down the hall and out the front door. The pool of relief she dives into is deep and cool and soothing. And it revives her.
Swallowing her nausea, she inches her fingers up and over the face of the cupboard door, gripping the lip of the counter top and slowly raising herself to her feet.
“You promised,” she sobs softly, dabbing the warm trickle under her nose with her wrist. “When we got back together, you promised you’d never do this to me again.
I believed you.”
He weaves toward her, pitching forward until their noses are almost touching. The lingering scent of the woman he was with fills her sinuses and makes her gorge rise. Swaying slightly, he regards her through whiskey eyes that simmer with rage.
“You promised!” he apes in a high-pitched squeal. His upper lip curls into a familiar sneer that flushes her veins with icewater.
“You’re pathetic,” he spits, and twists away from her. Closing her eyes, she begins to release the breath she’s been holding, as his arm strikes out and a meaty hand grasps her throat. With a mighty shove, he sends her slight body spiralling backward to slam against the kitchen wall. When she finally comes to and can open her left eye enough to clear a narrow path of sight, she sees him hunched at the kitchen table, slack-jawed and snoring, a cigarette butt smoldering a brown patch on the linoleum at the spot where Timmy’s chocolate milk had pooled earlier.
Willing herself not to howl with the pain that is jackhammering every inch of her body, she pushes and squirms across the floor until, finally, she is resting at her husband’s feet. Slowly, cautiously, she inches her bloodied fingers up beneath a pant-leg to seek out the weapon she knows he keeps strapped there. He snorts in his drunken slumber but she is certain he won’t awaken.
She releases the safety catch with trembling fingers and strains to pull herself up, leaning against the kitchen table for support. Her lungs are on fire and she takes a few good, rasping breaths before she touches the barrel to his forehead… gives it a nudge.
No games. She pulls the trigger before he’s had half a chance to focus on the barrel.
She sets the pistol down gently on the table, then crumples to the floor to wait for the help that she knows will eventually come. As she fades into the welcome embrace of cool, grey shadows, she is laughing inside; laughing, and dancing, and singing.
They will never be together again.
The Library
By Donna Marrin
My earliest memories of my father include the tower of books that were always stacked neatly beside his chair, one resting open on his lap. I inherited his great love for books before I could do much more than “read” the pictures. It wasn’t long before he began taking me on Saturday morning outings to a place that felt as warm and welcoming as home—a place where I could see row upon row of books, no matter which direction I faced. Dad’s eyes sparkled as he explained that this was our community library and I was allowed to borrow as many books as I fancied. He couldn’t have made me any happier had he plunked me down on a mountain of sweets. The library was my kind of candy store.
After leading me to the children’s section, dad would trundle off to search for treasures of his own. Those books with the most colorful spines would be first to attract my attention. Selecting one at a time, I’d page through, reading the words aloud while my mind danced with the vibrant images. There were so many stories that captured my imagination and lured me into dazzling worlds-where forest animals shared afternoon tea in jewel-tone dresses and feathered caps; where wizards hurled thunderbolts from magic wands and evil trolls always got their comeuppance; where handsome princes on white stallions rescued beautiful princesses in shimmering ball gowns. And, of course, where everyone lived happily ever after.
It always seemed to me that we’d only just arrived when dad would reappear from behind a shelf, cradling an armload of selections and announcing it was time for us to go home. How difficult to decide which books to take with me when there were so many to choose from! I wanted to read them all.
Forty-five years later, books are still my eye in the hurricane of life. The love of reading dad instilled in me when I was a little girl is the most priceless gift he could ever have given to me; one that I will treasure long after he’s gone.
No matter how the world changes around me, my community library remains a significant part of my life. Where else can one go and be surrounded by volume after volume on every topic imaginable…to enjoy brief journeys into worlds so different from our own? Other than the air we breathe, not much worth having today is still free-except at the library. And it’s been that way for as far back as libraries have existed in our communities.
As a child, the public library was a magical place and it still feels that way to me today.
How wonderful that some things never change.
The Corner Store
By Donna Marrin
I’m thinking about my best friend,
Sue, who lived next door,
And the pastime that we treasured most:
Our journeys to the corner store.
First, we’d do a hasty search
Through both our kitchens’ trash,
For empty soda bottles,
The next best thing to cash!
Beneath the bluest summer sky,
Along the dusty, country road,
We’d skip and chat and sing and laugh,
Cradling our precious load.
Looming like a sweet mirage,
The corner store would catch our sight,
Thoughts of what we’d find inside
Made us run with all our might.
The clatter of penny loafers
Upon creaky steps in need of stain,
The tinkling of a screen-door bell,
Announcing we were back again.
Although his name escapes me,
I can see the bloke who ran the shop,
His smile, as wide as licorice string,
Rising above the counter top.
While we surrendered all our bottles,
He’d scratch his chin in calculation.
And silently, we’d watch him,
Breath held in anticipation.
Three quarters, two dimes and a nickel
Were enough to stoke our glee.
In those days, that meant plenty
Of sweet treats for Sue and me!
In a flurry, we made our selections
From a yummy maze of candy jars:
Jellies, gumballs, fat wax lips,
Chocolate coins and licorice cigars.
Chirping “thanks” through chewy caramels,
Clutching plump brown paper sacks,
Out the door and down the steps,
Knowing that we’d soon be back.
A Brief Encounter
By Donna Marrin
The airport.
I sit hunched on a stiff, plastic bench; chin on fist, wedged between strangers, listening for the boarding announcement.
Swinging one crossed leg, I peer at the sea of faces. All shapes, all sizes. Some snoring, some animated, some as bored as I. Ready to rise and stretch my limbs when…
…Whoa, Nellie! Jackpot bells a-clanging! Lights a-flashing!
The faces and bodies around me dissolve quicker than watercolors on a freshly painted canvas caught in the rain. All but one.
He lounges against a vacant ticket counter, one thumb hooked through a loop on his well-worn blue jeans, the subtle outline of taut thigh muscles apparent beneath. Other thumb hooked at the collar of a battered, brown leather aviator jacket slung loosely over one broad shoulder.
His glance catches mine and he holds my gaze as he pushes languidly away from the ticket booth. He ambles toward me like a cat stalking its prey.
I attempt to swallow, to breathe. The earth squeals to a halt in mid spin as he stops before me. His stance is insolent and like metal drawn to magnet, I rise slowly until we are eye to eye. I feel his warm breath on my cheek. No words are exchanged as he lifts a fingertip to trace the barest path along my jaw and over my lips, then brush gently at a stray curl of hair fallen over one of my eyes. I am disappearing, disappearing into dark-lashed indigo depths. He cups my face in his large, smooth hands and draws my lips ever so slowly toward his. My eyelids are heavy, drowsy, and my breath is shallow as he draws me closer, closer still…until…
“Honey! C’mon! They’ve called our seat numbers!”
Poof. Adonis is gone. In his place is my husband, squinting at me over a mound of golf clubs and carry-on luggage.
“Daydreaming again, huh? What’s that mind of yours coming up with now?”
“That’s my secret.”
I grin and wink at the lady beside me, but she doesn’t notice.
She seems lost in a daydream of her own.
A Day In The Life Of This Writer
By Donna M. Marrin
I slouch before my PC screen.
New document there. So bare. So clean.
I itch to write a simple line,
But not a thought will come to mind.
I usually have too much to say.
Damn brain; it’s shooting blanks today.
My need to write’s a gnawing ache…
Grey matter, please! It’s time to wake!
O! Woe is me! I think I’ll try
To spark things with a nip of rye.
Alas! She’s back—O heav’nly brain!
Back in the saddle, I am, again.
Thoughts a-flame; hair’s on fire,
I’m higher than a frequent flyer.
Of this writing life, I’ll never tire.
Memories
By Donna Marrin
To him, time held no meaning. It was a thing that trickled by, one miniscule grain at a time, to collect into a murky, unmoving mass that pooled around him and made him want to sleep.
He knew he was old. He could feel it deep in his bones and he could hear it in the sluggish slapping of his feet against linoleum.
He remembered vaguely a time when he had been light and nimble… Was it so long ago? …A time when he had been sprightly and robust and bursting with vigor, when he had been able to run until he’d thought his lungs would burst, and so continue to run harder. He remembered how simple it had been to beat the boy in racing challenges. He sighed. Now, he would be fortunate to maintain the pace of a tortoise.
A staccato of horn blasts outside shattered his thoughts, prompting him to rise with a groan and shuffle over to the window. Peering through glass fogged lightly with his breath, he focused on a car idling in the driveway across the street. A grinning girl emerged from the house and bounded toward the waiting car. The tip of his nose grazed the cool pane of glass as he watched the car disappear from sight. Turning away, he headed back to his sofa, made cozy with his favorite old fleece throw, and stretched his body out with a yawn.
When he was much younger… Was it really so long ago? …He and the boy had enjoyed hunting together. He could once again feel the heat of the sun warming his taut, muscular back, hear the creek as it bubbled away the silence, while he and the boy waited, well-camouflaged by dense foliage.
He could feel his veins hum with life again as he recalled how still, how patient they had both been. Frozen into position, adrenaline building until he itched to burst, to fly, to spring at the slightest hint that their prey was near. Sometimes, the boy would shoot a hare or a bird of some kind, and they would hoot and holler and dance together in triumphant celebration. Somewhere along the way, their hunting expeditions had dwindled and then ceased altogether. He supposed the boy had finally realized that the old fellow just didn’t have it in him anymore.
His eyes snapped open at the sound of footsteps on the porch outside. As he heard the metallic click of the lock, he eased from the couch and shuffled toward the door as quickly as he was able, joy flooding his senses. He knew it would be his beloved boy. The boy was always first home to greet him.
When finally! the door swung open and in bounded the boy, his heart hammered merrily in his chest. Swiftly tossing aside a load of schoolbooks, the beaming boy stooped down, arms flung open to receive his friend. The old body maneuvered itself easily into the boy’s arms and the love that encircled him ignited that same surge of exhilaration he had known in his youth. The boy always made him feel that way. He felt needed and loved (and…well, yes! …younger!) whenever they were together.
With a silent but hearty laugh, he followed the boy into the kitchen and, all the while, his tail wagged with glee.
An Ode To Bread
By Donna Marrin
Once upon a time
There lived a Princess in distress,
Her amply padded body
Couldn’t fit a single dress.
No matter how the seams were stitched,
The straining threads would burst,
The tailor’s ears blushed crimson
As the princess shrieked and cursed.
She’d wander ‘round the castle,
Emitting moo-like moans,
Swathed in velvet draperies
And spitting chicken bones.
No matter how she struggled,
No matter how she tried,
Her tummy always triumphed,
Whether baked or boiled or fried.
One fine day, she noticed,
As she passed the pantry door,
A freshly baked assortment
Of cakes and breads galore!
Eyes as wide as pie pans,
She quickly tiptoed in,
Saliva dribbled o’er her chin,
Her taste buds were a-spin.
She gulped and gorged and gobbled,
And as she wolfed a loaf of bread,
It caught within her windpipe.
She choked till she was dead.
The moral of this verse is:
If fresh-baked bread’s your vice,
It’s wise to just avoid it,
Unless the damned thing’s sliced!
The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth
By Donna Marrin
It was the strangest job application I had ever filled out. My hands trembled slightly. I wanted this position above all else. It was what I had played hardball for and sacrificed and struggled to achieve. It would be my crowning glory… my trump card in the game.
Beneath my name, address, and other particulars was a single question in bold lettering at the center of the page:
“What had you once been led to believe,
which you later found to be untrue?”
A tingle of paranoia tiptoed up my spine and I glanced around, wondering if I might be on one of those hidden-camera shows.
I happened to be interviewing for a big-shot executive position, and this was not typical of the types of questions the upper echelons cared a whit about. Nor was filling out an application form standard procedure during an interview of this calibre. This was plain weird.
No cameras were visible to my eye in the richly appointed and cavernous mahogany-paneled boardroom, so I shrugged off my feelings of wariness, took another sip of tea from the fine china cup, and reread the question. Setting down my Mont Blanc, I leaned back in my chair, considering how to approach this odd question.
As a child, my overactive imagination made me gullible to a fault. As long as no laughter followed, any story was believable.
The stories that most piqued my interest usually featured mystical characters: faeries and elves, gnomes and trolls, and so on. For the longest time, I was convinced these beings did, in fact, dance under mushrooms and live in hollowed-out tree trunk knotholes, deep in the core of all forests. Riding bikes with my best friend, Sue, along dirt trails that meandered through miles of thicket, my senses were always on alert for a glimpse of tiny creatures in head-to-toe green felt, pointed bell-tipped hats and curly-toed slippers. I dreamed about capturing one of them… My plans involved restructuring an old birdcage into a posh home littered with tiny velvet cushions and bitty china dishes; I would dress the creature in my most elegant doll clothing, serve it tea with lemon, and treat it to tiny bits of cake and ice cream. It didn’t take long for my belief in the existence of these magical creatures to fritter away like faerie dust tossed to the wind. All that seemed to dwell in our forest were assorted bugs and some ugly old bullfrogs.
Along with my belief in lilliputian folk was my belief that a black iron pot existed at the foot of every rainbow, overflowing with gold pieces. I can still remember bouncing around on the back seat of the family car, a heavy sun shower having just let up, and my mother turning to look over her shoulder at me.
“Look at the rainbow, Donna!”
Craning my neck, I squealed in delight at the glorious pastel-colored ribbons painted across the sky. I announced to my dad that he needed to drive fast! to the rainbow’s end, since the pot of gold waiting for us there might soon be found by somebody else. He laughed and told me that the end of the rainbow was much too far away for us to reach in time. Feeling rather cross at my father, I decided right then that someday, I would discover it on my own. And I would not be sharing any of the gold with my dad, either. Sadly, not more than a year later, the nastiest of all the neighborhood boys informed me that there was no pot of gold, never had been, and that I was a dumb kid.
There was also a brief period when the nursery rhymes my mother read aloud spurred me to seek out the Man In The Moon. I spent a couple of nights on a stool at my bedroom window, staring up in great expectation, waiting for him to appear. It seemed that if I squinted, I could see a cow jumping over. But I saw no evidence of a dish or a spoon. Nor did the Man himself ever bother to make an appearance.
Too, there was the summer I overheard somebody mention that if you dug a deep enough hole, you could actually crawl through from your back yard and come out the other end in China. Sue and I gathered our mothers’ garden trowels one morning and began digging. We did discover that brown dirt suddenly becomes rust-colored at a certain depth. We also discovered an old sock, a milky-blue marble, and a rock that, after being rinsed under the garden hose, glittered with flecks of gold. We never did get to China, but we did harvest enough dirt to fill the rest of our afternoon creating tray after tray of luscious mud cakes and pies.
Then there was the winter day after Sue had abandoned me to go away on a week’s vacation with her family. The only other playmate for miles around was an older kid from down the street who had a creepy-looking wandering eye and sprayed spit every time she said a word that began with the letter ‘p’. I’d been making snow angels on my front lawn when up she marched, one eye focused on me, the other pointed somewhere in the vicinity of Sue’s house next door. She had a small saucepan clutched in one sopping red mitten (whether sopping from melted snow or spit, I’ll never know). She asked if I’d care to learn how to make diamonds. I was intrigued. Diamonds!
She pointed one mitten toward an undisturbed bank of snow. “See how it sparkles?”
I nodded, suddenly mesmerized by the vestal white patch that glittered under the morning sunshine.
“Those are diamond seeds sparkling,” she confided. “If you put some in a pot and cook them on the stove, they turn into diamonds.”
My morning had suddenly metamorphosed into the most exciting adventure. She and I carefully scooped mittfuls of ‘diamond seeds’ into her pan. Together, we trudged to my back door, where my mom answered our pounding with a scowl on her face as she juggled an armful of cleaning supplies. After exploding into a breathless monologue on the secret to making diamonds-Right on our kitchen stove!-mom sighed and shook her head, pursing her lips as she frowned at the scruffy kid beside me.
“When you heat snow, it melts,” she said. “If melted snow turned into diamonds, don’t you think the ground be littered with them in the spring?” She gestured in my direction with her Windex bottle. “Give the girl back her pot, and come inside right this minute for lunch.”
I don’t think there’s ever been a time since then, when catching sight of a glittering patch of snow, I’ve not thought to myself, “…but boy oh boy, can you just imagine?”
Of course, it’s probably no surprise that my all-time favorite TV show was Bewitched. The mere notion that one might be able to go anywhere, do anything, simply by snapping two fingers or twitching a nose, struck me as spectacular, astonishing, and every other adjective in between. My left brain knew that the characters in the show were actors and not real witches and warlocks, but my right brain was not fully convinced that such possibilities did not actually exist. I wanted so badly to believe that it was possible to make magic happen if one concentrated deeply enough.
Sitting up in my bed one night, I spent what seemed like hours trying to make my bedroom door open from afar, first by wiggling my nose, next by clamping my eyes tightly shut and concentrating. The next thing I knew, it was morning-and my door was in the same position as it had been the night before. Closed. I sighed and scurried off to breakfast.
For a while I persisted-attempting to levitate Barbie doll shoes, staring at a spoon on the kitchen table, willing it to bend in half. Eventually, Bewitched ended its run, and I moved on to other beliefs.
There was one childhood belief that remained with me for many years. I was oblivious to the fact that certain information had been relayed to me as a practical joke, long forgotten by the practical joker: my own traitorous father. Late one night, while traveling in the family car, I saw thick beams of light sweeping back and forth across the sky. When I asked what they were, my dad replied that the beams were from massive government spotlights searching the skies for enemy fighter planes that dared to enter our airspace. The rest of the way home I was silent, my eyes focused on the patch of sky being searched. Years later, as a twelve-year-old playing outside with my peers after dusk, somebody pointed up at a pair of light beams sweeping back and forth across the sky.
“Those are government searchlights looking for enemy planes,” I announced with an air of authority. A cacophony of snorts sounded behind me, and the rudest of all the neighborhood boys, who was now also the cutest and the one I dreamed of being kissed by someday, called out, “You dummy! Those are spotlights advertising the new car lot in town!”
Fortunately it was dark, and nobody could see my crimson face and mortified expression. When I raced inside to ask my dad if this was true, he lowered his newspaper to reveal an incredulous expression. “You actually believed me?”
My teen years came and went, then young adulthood. Truths were often revealed when I least expected. Lifelong beliefs ingrained over time, still steeping in youthful naiveté, were shattered like delicate, china teacups. They call it ‘getting your hard knocks’…a rite of passage that sloughs away verdant, dewy-eyed layers of the psyche to expose a new, stronger psyche-one that’s older and wiser and more cynical.
Once upon a time I believed: that all friends are loyal; that the people we trust most will never hurt us; that nothing but good can result from telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth; that authority figures can be depended upon to look out for our best interests; that people mean what they say and say what they mean; that swearing one to secrecy is enough.
By the time I arrived at a place where I’d stockpiled all my knowledge gleaned from life’s trials and tribulations-the give and take of marriage and friendship, the give of raising a child, the take of working for a living-the few optimistic beliefs I still clung to were running on fumes.
Like the earth’s rotation, slowly but surely, I’ve come to embrace certain beliefs, accepting them as I never could have in my youth… beliefs that ripen only after all the hard-knock bruises have faded.
I do believe that we are all capable of accomplishing anything we set our minds to, simply by focusing our energy in the right direction. I do believe in a higher power, whether it’s God or the faith we have in ourselves. I believe that, in spite of the violence and bad tidings trumpeted in the media, most of the individuals who touch our day-to-day lives are good people at heart. I believe that love in its purest form is never fully understood until you have raised a child. I believe that happiness is exactly where you look for it. I believe that life zips by far too quickly to waste time dwelling on what people think about us or our belongings or our choices. I believe that we betray ourselves in the worst possible way when we struggle to change those things that make us unique, simply to conform to the standards of those unwilling to accept who we are. I believe…
The muted sound of a phone ringing somewhere nearby broke through my thoughts.
I realized I was feeling rather light-hearted at this moment in time.
I straightened, stretched languidly, and looked down again at the question that continued to taunt me in all its black boldness from the center of the pristine, white page.
“What had you once been led to believe,
which you later found to be untrue?”
I made a decision, and picked up my pen.
“For most of my adult life, I believed that there was only one way to reach the summit of success in one’s life: focus on the topmost rung of the ladder and blind yourself to the sacrifices…to anything that gets in the way. I believed that those people choosing to be content with any of the lower rungs were failures. For far too long, this is what I believed to be the truth.”
With a cleansing sigh, I dropped my pen into my purse, picked up my briefcase and trench coat, and slipped quietly from the confines of the elegant boardroom. I was going home… to slip into my rattiest pair of jeans, dust off my watercolor paints, send the nanny away on a very long vacation, and dig into a gooey ice-cream sundae with my kids.
June 7th, 2009 at 10:19 pm
Loved this story the first time I read it and I loved it again! Besides, it makes me somewhat “famous” too! Love, Sue (the nextdoor neighbour)
March 29th, 2010 at 7:23 am
Hi Donna- is there no end to your talents? I read a couple of your pieces and one or two poems and I’m filled with envy that you can evoke such emotion. I’m not going to read any more. It’s bad enough at our meetings, when I have to suffer being exposed to the vast pool of talent around the table, and I feel the sinking in the pit of my belly as my turn to ‘expose’ myself draws nearer. As a writer I cannot help but relate to your account of letting the latest baby go ‘out there’. I am about to release my precious infant to the cruel world of critics, but who knows? There may be some positive feedback to- which brings me another relevant point- are we critiquing each others’ work enough in our group? I notice the couple of writer’s stories I read didn’t have any comments, even though they have been posted for quite a while. Let’s hope the reason is we’re all too busy writing!! Once again, you have my admiration and thanks for such entertaining, innovative and clever writing!
April 15th, 2010 at 4:33 pm
Hi Donna, I just read ‘Together Again’ and I’m stunned. The description of her reaction to Pete entering the kitchen is sheer brilliance and the masterful building of the fear and suspense has me speechless with envy. What a craftsperson you are. Don’t dare to tell me you haven’t been published, but I do want to know where I can buy more of your work. Sincerly, Betty