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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Get to Know Literary Ontario, with Donna Marrin of the Markham Village Writers: An Interview
Donna Marrin, founder of the Markham Village Writers, talks to Open Book about the writing group, their on-line magazine and her own creative projects… Read the interview here at: http://www.openbookontario.com/news/get_know_literary_ontario_donna_marrin_markham_village_writers
Stained Glass Windows
By Donna Marrin
I must tell you about our last day together.
I’d had another restless night’s sleep, filled with enough dark dreams and menacing images to leave me spent by morning. The sound of Cal’s palm slapping the snooze button brought me to full consciousness and I struggled once again to remember what had happened in my dream to coat my skin in such a residue of terror.
Groggy, I stumbled a path to the shower, tilting my face upward to welcome the warm, pulsing water. I imagined that the spray was rinsing away all of the grainy weariness beneath my eyelids. I could have stayed there for hours.
Three raps on the door meant that it was Cal’s turn. Quickly, I lathered up with the bracing scent of peppermint and eucalyptus, rinsed off, and stepped out into the soft, cream velour bath towel that Cal held with arms wide. He liked to greet me this way every morning—wrap me up in “a towel and a hug,” he would say.
Such a kind and gentle soul—Cal was the husband of my dreams… of any woman’s dreams, really. Cal was the knight on a white stallion, the happily-ever-after prince. Through seven years of marriage, not a day had passed that he hadn’t treated me like I were some ethereal goddess on a pedestal. And handsome! Cal was the template for all golden boys. Wherever we went, other women would eye me curiously. I knew what they were thinking: “What is that gorgeous guy doing with her?” I admit—in the looks department, I was more Kathy Bates than Catherine Zeta Jones. I always felt a sort of smug satisfaction while eyeing them right back and looping my arm securely through his.
Now, feeling nothing more than a vague tickle of foreboding, I reached up to stroke his wavy, amber-colored hair and allowed my towel to fall to the floor as I stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He smiled against my lips as he gently pushed me away. “No, my love. Tempting, but I’m already late. Tonight will come soon enough.”
Cal ran a landscaping company. Although he employed a staff of seven gardeners, he would challenge himself every month by taking on just one special project. He would do everything himself—from the planning of the design to the last touches on the finished landscape. His results had a way of sucking the breath right out of you—they were that exquisite. While he worked on his project, not a soul was allowed even the slightest glimpse of his masterpiece until he was ready to unveil it. People often tried persuading him to spill his secrets to achieving such great beauty. He would chuckle modestly and reply, “I use only high-grade fertilizer.”
I gathered my towel from the floor, throwing him a cute pout as he stepped into the shower. Tonight marked our seventh wedding anniversary. Cal was smack in the midst of one of his special projects, but he had promised to be home early enough in the evening to take me to the Rosewater Supper Club for dinner and dancing. He said he had “a surprise of the greatest magnitude” for me and that he would be taking me to see it before we went to dinner. Cal had always maintained that ‘seven’ was his lucky number. I’d already assumed that Cal would do something exceptional and I was excited. After some wrangling, all I was able to pry from him was that he had hidden my surprise at the site of his latest project. I was a bit shocked to learn that he would finally allow me to see a project before completion—it had taken seven years for me to earn this honor! I was also hoping that perhaps he’d found a way to grow a diamond lariat and matching drop earrings from a rose bush!
That morning, I left the house before Cal. I wanted to get an early start on my day so
I could clean up some paperwork before I began to see my clients. As an optometrist, I love my job as dearly as Cal loved his. I have always taken pride in knowing that I spend my days helping people see more clearly. Eyes are windows to the soul. Beautiful, stained-glass windows.
Cal left a message sometime in the afternoon to let me know that he was right on schedule and couldn’t wait to see me at home by around seven. Though I’d been running late at work, I managed to get home in time to enjoy a leisurely, lavender bath, apply some makeup and twist my shoulder-length hair into a sleek chignon. As I was about to put on the diamond teardrop earrings Cal had surprised me with on my last birthday, I paused. Smiling slyly at my reflection in the mirror, I decided to leave my earlobes bare… just in case.
At seven-thirty, I was pacing the front foyer, impatience tugging at the corners of my cranberry glossed lips. Why would his cell phone be off?
By nine, my chignon hung loose, my carefully applied mascara in wet streaks on my face, and I was slumped in Cal’s wing chair, rubbing holes into the silk-upholstered arms. My empty, churning stomach had risen into my throat. Cal was never late. He was human clockwork.
I knew that something was terribly wrong. If you had peered into my eyes, you would have seen a soul dying in agony—a soul that knew Cal was dead. He drove a Porche Carrera. Sometimes, he drove it much too fast.
The phone call came at precisely ten-oh-seven that evening. As I’d expected, it was the police. But Cal wasn’t dead.
Two patrol cops had been driving along a barren, country road and had decided to pull over when their curiosity was piqued by a minute flash of light from behind an abandoned house for sale. That was when they had stumbled upon Cal at work.
In the interview room at the police station, I gripped the table until my knuckles were white as I listened to the two detectives sitting across from me.
The moonless night was black as a bottomless pool as the patrol cops crept toward the house. A small speck of light winked periodically from out back. Thick hedges bordered the property and the cops had to edge quietly along until they arrived at a wrought iron gate. That’s when they saw the light source.
A candlewick burned in an oil-filled crystal bowl set upon a thick carpet of manicured grass. There were rose bushes, so many rose bushes. The air was cloying with the heavy, sweet fragrance mingled with other scents that weren’t so sweet.
My husband, my Cal, straddled the still body of his sixth victim, his pruning sheers poised above her chest. She’d been snipped neatly open from neck to navel. Her beautiful, wintergreen eyes had been carefully removed and left floating in the quivering sheen of the crystal bowl. There were many more horrors. Thankfully, I fainted before they were able to tell me about the two, freshly dug holes. Two.
Later, it was reported in the media that, after a brief flash of surprise, Cal’s beautiful features had simply resettled themselves into a mask as vacant as the face of a cliff. I just can’t see it. I don’t think I ever will.
There were photos of his six victims. Only then, when I saw the collage of them together, did I realize how striking the resemblance was.
They all looked just like me.
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