Member Bio: Sheila Horne
Sheila Horne started writing short stories and poems as a teenager in Bryan, Texas. She graduated from George Brown College’s Creative Writing Program. She has been published in various chapbooks, anthologies, journals and magazines. She co-authored Temple of Light, with Joanna Gale, a successful chapbook of poems about the Sharon Temple. Sheila is the founder of the Crosslinks’ Creative Writing Group. She is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society and The Markham Village Writers. Sheila writes for Vajrayana Quarterly and is currently working on a collection of fiction.
Visit Sheila’s website at http://www.nottoowordybysheilahorne.com
The Strange Thing About Buses
by Sheila Horne
The woman boards the bus late in Calgary. She digs around in her purse for her ticket. A tube of lipstick falls to the floor, rolls out the open door, and settles in a puddle, a left over from yesterday’s rain. The bus driver glares at her.
“I have a schedule to keep,” he says, “If you can’t be on time remain in your seat.”
She looks at him as though he’s speaking a foreign language.
“But my lipstick.” She says.
The driver points to the No Talking To The Driver sign, and yanks a lever. The door hisses shut.
The woman waddles down the aisle. The bus jolts and rumbles onto the Highway, leaving mountains, leaving a brand new car in a parking lot, sold quickly for pennies, and someone hollering, “where you going?”
She flops down beside me. She is popcorn, buttermilk, hayrides, and rosy cheeks surrounded by red curls. I choke inside my jaded self, remembering a time before I discovered fairy tales do run away. She smiles. I can tell she wants to talk. I smile back, friendly enough, but it says Halt! Buses are not for life stories or exchanging dark secrets. Buses are for running away, thinking and healing.
Her name is Ania. I tell her my name is Elinor, like the song. She is 35 years old and a good daughter. She is leaving home to meet the man of her dreams who lifted her out of her parents’ rule. Her parents don’t know. Her parents don’t know. They couldn’t know. They wouldn’t want to know the city that has no limits; that stretches; that reaches; that makes room for those chasing some-where new.
I look out at barren landscapes and trees baring branches that make no promises and have no expectations. In Manitoba a man stands in the doorway of a broken down trailer. I glance back one more time to shadows of wheat fields, and I’m reminded of someone shouting. Yelling after me through rain and fog and wipers against glass, and clacking knitting needles, now hidden away in tapestry bags filled with mitts and hats and promises to keep in touch.
The no talking sign falls down as the bus leaves Sudbury. A man two rows forward stops snoring, stands on the stairs and carries on a conversation with the driver. Ania and I laugh. She asks for my phone number. I make one up, because that’s the strange thing about buses. You’re always somebody’s best friend until you reach your final destination.
Dream Date
by Sheila Horne
The smooth blue and white leather felt cool on the back of my thighs. I pulled my schoolgirl kilt down to cover my knees. He didn’t notice. He asked how I liked the way the car held the road, how the suspension eased over potholes in the parking lot.
“I know nothing about cars.” I said.
He pressed on the gas pedal. The wheels spun and the car veered to the left. He laughed. I gripped the door handle as the car glided over the gravel road like ducks on ice. He glanced in the rear view mirror and frowned.Then he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a comb, ran it through his hair, and looked at himself in the mirror again. He smiled.
“Hey high school beauty queen,” he said pointing to the radio, “throw a dime in the juke box.”
I reached for the radio and turned it on.
“Be careful,” he said, “she’s delicate.”
The Beach Boys sang Barbara Ann. I leaned my head back on the seat and stared up at clouds flying by in a blue sky. I planned our wedding, our children, and our life. After months of getting him to notice me, it was worth fibbing to my parents.
He pushed harder on the gas pedal. The turquoise T-Bird fish tailed out of control, but quickly corrected itself.
“That’s what I like.” He said smiling at his reflection in the side mirror.
He asked how I liked the ride and the feel of the leather. How I liked the sound of the engine. I looked at him and realized he didn’t know my name. He never asked. He always called me high school beauty queen. What was it I saw in him when he pulled into the Burger Palace where I worked after school? What was it I thought I saw when he asked to drive me home? The other girls I worked with, nodded at me then at him. They loved his slick dark hair, his glistening smile, and his pretty blue eyes. They loved his car. They said he won every drag race. They said I was lucky. They said they were jealous.
“Well what do you think?” He asked, pulling up in front of my house.
“About what?” I asked.
“Isn’t she a beaut?” He ran his hands over the leather and chrome dashboard, then leaned over and opened my door.
“Later high school beauty queen.” He said flooring the gas pedal.
I watched gravel scatter under the wheels of his dream girl.
Sheltered
By Sheila Horne
ancient oaks
stand
nailed against
purple
november skies
scritching
window panes
i burrow
within frayed quilt
and somewhere between
sleep and wakefulness
i hear music
Rituals
By Sheila Horne
Galloping winds torment
Cascading jungles.
Sardine sandwiches
smeared with mustard.
Champagne in mugs
chipped with age.
A tropical frenzy, you say,
from the window seat.
Sunday funnies crumpled
AM radio — tuned low.