Guest Writers
Show us your stuff! Do you have a short story or poem that you’d like to share? Simply submit it typed in the body of your email at info@markhamvillagewriters.com.
A Friend
By Kreistina Blinova
A friend is,
Someone who will love you,
For whom you are,
Inside and out.
A friend is,
Someone who will,
Always be there to,
Lend a hand when you need it.
A friend is,
Someone who supports you,
In every decision you choose,
But also gives you advice.
A friend is,
Someone who doesn’t expect anything,
Except love and friendship,
That has developed through the years.
A friend is,
Someone who helps you,
When you are in need,
Or down.
A friend is,
Someone who,
Introduces you to new things,
Which you hear about.
A friend is,
Someone who lets you know,
When you are choosing or doing,
Something wrong.
A friend is,
Someone who can become,
Your best friend,
For the rest of your life.
A friend is,
Someone who is just a friend,
And the
Friendship somehow works.
KREISTINA BLINOVA originally hails from Moscow, Russia; now a resident of Thornhill. Kreistina believes it’s good to let your imagination flow. That’s why she started writing. She finds the mystery of not knowing what her next piece will be, part of the fun of writing. She was also inspired by her special person—friend, Ashley McCubbin, who showed her how important it is to express her feelings. Kreistina wants to continue to write as she grows, and would love for one of her published pieces to gain some recognition. Her favourite expression: “Live the life that you imagined.”
PERCEPTION#24A
By Wendy Poole
We moved into our first new home in the spring. That spring it rained a lot. The front yard of our new abode became a replica of an inland waterway. Except in this case, the river water was oozing grey, sucking mud. In order to get from the driveway to the front door of our home two wood planks perched on three separate groupings of stones became our walkway over the mud gullies.
Each step we took on those wood boards caused them to wobble up and down. To lurch. To reel and to sway. My husband and I separately traversed from house to driveway and vice versa like apprenticed circus tightrope walkers learning to cross the high wire without a net.
We only attempted to cross the boards together once. Hand in hand, each of us moved our feet in unison–left, right, left we shuffled sideways across the tottering first board. Edging across that four-inch causeway, my husband paused to comment on the low-smacking humming sound coming from underneath the boards.
Neither of us realized that the joint weight from both of us caused the first board to sink lower and lower, bending in the middle so it became glued to the grey, sucking mud surface.
Worse, with each of our steps, the board now a tight spring was unbeknownst to us rapidly approaching lift-off. The final countdown occurred when my husband stepped with one foot onto the second section of our plank bridge. That partial release of weight sprang the spring. Or sprung the sprang. Or springed the sprung. Simply put, we were launched.
My feet rocketed upward and instinctively I gripped my husband’s hand even more tightly as I began my ascent. We both shot upwards. And briefly, ever so briefly, we were airborne, and just as quickly, we were not.
Our hands separated, we were two fledglings, flapping our arms and moving our legs, trying to maintain what we never really had–flight. Touchdown was not on terra firma. Oozing grey mud sucked off our shoes as we sunk into the unknown depths that was our front yard; the grey mud belched bubbles at the backs of our legs and then attempted to extract the rest of our clothing.
Now what happened next is a matter of interpretation. I maintain that my husband took a daring leap toward the front door, but the force of the suction holding his feet somewhat hindered his projection. His arms flayed about in a gallant attempt to offset the 45-degree angle that his body had taken and this is where the stories differ; he lost his balance and sort of went splat–full face.
According to him, as he swayed back and forth, I gave him a penetrating look and said, ”Do something,” and putting my words to action, I did just that; I pushed him. Hard.
As I said, this really is a matter of interpretation and I still deny that I walked over him so I could get to the front door. However, SOMEONE had to get there first.
It would be two years before a landscape specialist would show up to give us “our free initial consultation.” This was after we had a green front lawn, sidewalk, and porch area and had replanted the flower bulbs I’d planted upside down the previous year. The specialist assured us that with a few modifications (read that as, tear out what was there) we could still have a showcase front yard. Considering that we no longer had a front yard that moved, gurgled, burped and threw mud at anyone who happened by seemed to us to be a solid step already toward a showcase front yard.
As early spring turned to early summer that first year, we started to meet other couples and families. The street was still unpaved, but the sidewalks were in and the postal service would start in the fall. The front yard was now a dustbowl, our planks replaced with patio slabs. Evening walks and sitting outside with new friends became an important part of our routine. By mid-August, the sod was down. It took root relatively quickly. We watered and pampered it. We did not worry about the future dandelions and crabgrass, creeping charlie or grubs–we had, after all, survived the tumultuous mud. Right now, the grass was as green on our side as it was on the neighbour’s side. And, that was enough.
WENDY POOLE In public school five-hundred years ago, I remember reading a story about a man’s experience at the dentist. It was hilarious. Eric Nicol was a Canadian writer and humour columnist for a British Columbia newspaper. He won the Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour three times. ?I have always hoped that my tidbits of humor would provide others with the same laugh about life and its little moments that Mr. Nicols’ story gave me.
Writer’s Block
by Leanne Dyck
Take Note: Piss off! You heard me. Leave. I don’t want you around. I don’t have anything for you—no money, no booze, no nothin’. Isn’t it bad enough that I’m trapped in this tin piss can without you tormenting me? I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. I’m just fine on my own, thank you very much. I don’t need your help. I don’t need your pity. If you stay, one of the two of us is going to get hurt and I can guarantee it won’t be me. So get the hell out of my house! Why are you still here? Are you deaf, dumb, and stupid?
He found the note on the breakfast table. There it was beside his scrambled eggs and toast. He picked it up and read it slowly. It was Saturday—he had the time.
He smiled. Smiled—at such a note? Was he insane?
Maybe. He did, after all, love a writer. That required some degree of insanity.
Yes, he smiled. He smiled because he knew her writer’s block was over. The clouds had lifted. The sun shone. The birds sang. All was right with the world. His wife was back at work. She had once again found her muse.
“Did you read it?” she enquired, with a kiss.
“Um, yes, well, yes. I did.”
“Well, what do you think?” she beamed inquisitively.
“It’s rather, well, strong.”
“Yes, I know, isn’t it? I’m not sure where it fits yet. Sometimes it’s like assembling a jigsaw puzzle. Only you don’t have to find all the corner pieces first. You just have to find a piece.”
Yes, he had to admit, it did help to be a little insane…
Oh, yes I’m very familiar with writer’s block. So, familiar, am I, in fact, that I’ve devised ways and means to overcome it. These strategies have worked for me—I hope they work for you.
Release: One word leads to another. So grab a pen and write the first thing that comes to your mind—how cute your boyfriend looks in jeans; what you love about your new job; the weather. Write.
While you write, don’t worry about word count, grammar or spelling. Simply allow words to pour out of your pen uncensored. The only goal here is to relax and release.
Pep talk: It’s often beneficial to seek the advice of others who’ve faced the same obstacle. So, talk with or read the books of fellow writers to discover their strategies.
Helpful books are Steven King’s On Writing, James Scott Bell’s Plot & Structure, Nancy Lamb’s The Art and Craft of Storytelling.
Set goals: As a member of a critique group, my self-imposed expectation is that I have something to share at each meeting. If I don’t, my peers will know. For me, this external means of accountability is a strong motivator.
Other sources of motivation may be a daily word count or a weekly blog post.
Change of scenery: Sometimes unblocking can be as easy as going for a walk. Physical exercise allows my brain to work, while the rest of me is otherwise engaged.
If I consciously think about my writing at all, I focus on my reader. I have to write—I don’t want, I can’t disappoint them. They’re counting on me. I return to my project refreshed and ready to write.
All writers, face it, you will overcome it—believe in yourself.
LEANNE DYCK faces the blank page each day inspired by her beautiful island home. Her writing has appeared in a small collection of publications including Island Writer Magazine: the literary journal of Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands as well as in Kaleidoscope: exploring the experiences of disability through literature and the fine arts. In January 2011, Decadent Publishing released Leanne’s thriller, The Sweater Curse. The Sweater Curse has earned a four-and-a-half star rating on Amazon. Please visit The Sweater Curse blog at http://sweatercursed.blogspot.com and Leanne’s website at www.oknitting.com
Personal Dynamics
by Tara Timmers
Interrelating to the point
Of existential techniques
Can be a personal choice
In dwindling thoughts
Of acceptance and forgiveness
Others allow you in
Compassion has created me
And my dealings with the world
Has been trying
An eccentrical force awakened me
And the pouring began fool proof
Anger became me in an instance
And gracious constancy was the source
Believing in my purpose and loving was the
Tactful intention between the covers
Of my hope
Washed out from the flood of emotions
I reached a breaking point alone
Now I ask for guidance and see
The greener pastures of release
There is an us in this that won’t give this up
Pasted together in this lively school
Of thoughts and moments
Running deep within our veins and inspiration
That envelops us as we struggle
With relating in our work
The politics are always
Beneath the gravel at our feet
And the journey back to ourselves
Is often far reaching and unique
I humbly accept the offer
To clear up all mistakes
And hold us both accountable
For all our greed did take
Social etiquette hangs over us
In this connection come not late
Personal dynamics
Peaceful interception
Wars and forbidden ways
Define the analysis of us
Self-Responsibility
by Tara Timmers
I am overtly in this maze of life eventualities
To consume myself
Into a fractioned melting zone
I relinquished all moral control
To choice after choice
In this period of circumstantial eviction
I could only be free to walk
As I do on a path that
Leads into me like a forged check
In the hands of the law to conjure a dream
Is to be the sole heir to its sources
And live accordantly within all its factors
While knowing I am its master
You never come into play
As I feel my way towards
The reality that is overcoming me
My earning structure realizes its potential
My feet trek alone in reciprocity and equality
There is no superiority in I
When the universe allows the we
But self-responsibility
Is the skeleton key to surviving
It takes a working soul to defy envy and dismember solace
Melancholy can be manipulated into happy
And only I can make myself feel, do, and be
Parental purpose alludes to the child and adult
When the stress is like a gun to the head of a pin
I have learned the sky is a rampant notion
And I am a unicorn’s horn piercing it to see the cosmos
Every defiance is rebellion and withheld torment from
The days was not so strong as to take care of myself
But self-responsibility is the key to surviving
Reminders of sane progress are kept in mind
As the days fold over into each other
Telling of the forbidden stories while I lapse into memory
Give time a fighting sword to unyield
Indifference subsides and I make my
Metaphorical first footprints
Sand to earth to concrete pavement
I am self-responsible to survive
TARA TIMMERS was born March of 1975 in Victoria, B.C., Canada. Tara has begun to gain a sense of individuality and ride with the wind of personal development. Her strong values of respect, integrity, equality and self-responsibility drive her to her creative work. As an analytical being, her intellectual understanding of relationships builds each line of insight. Tara’s poetry delves into the patterns of the psyche and involves the reader at a level of depth that encompasses relationship strategies, realizations and perpetual insights. Her courage to say what was left unsaid in her poetry creates a journey for the reader to wonder where she was and whom she was with in each poetic stance.
Breakfast in Cyberspace
By Sandra Stretch-Reed
It’s 9 a.m. and Stella Stretch, of Waterloo, has just poured herself a bowl of hot oatmeal from the stove. A high pitched ring tone summons her to the living room, where she scurries over to her Lazy Boy. Bowl in hand, she takes a seat in front of her open laptop. Reaching for the mouse, she clicks on the Skype answer with video button and to her delight, her oldest son appears on her screen. Donnie owns a fly-in fishing lodge on Hearne Lake near Yellowknife. The only access is by float plane and satellite is his only means of communication.
“What are you up to today?” he asks.
“I’m just having some porridge,” Stella answers, leaning back in her chair and spooning oatmeal into her mouth, as Donnie watches from his own screen. “Then I have a Golden Age meeting this afternoon.”
“I’m eating porridge too,” he laughs, raising his cereal bowl to show her.
As they eat breakfast together, Donnie brings her up to date on his latest renovations. When they put aside their empty bowls, he carries his laptop around the lodge, pointing the camera at the new hardwood floors. The lumber came from his own trees, which he cut and planed himself.
“Looks great,” says his mother. “You did a really good job.”
Albeit a makeshift office and a far cry from ergonomic standards, Stella is quite happy with her little computer station. Her laptop sits on an adjustable meal tray, which came in handy after her fifth hip replacement. Of course, she only has two hips but apparently she keeps wearing them out. After all, she’s 85 years old and, in her younger days, she used to carry newborn calves from the pasture to the barn. The laptop, which cost under $400, was a recent gift from her family. Stella, who had no previous computer experience, was Skyping around the globe, within the first week.
“Unlike most people, Mum’s not afraid to try new things,” says her daughter, Carol, “and I really admire her for that. We showed her how to use Skype and set up her email. Donnie established a free remote networking connection so he can access her computer directly, if she runs into trouble.”
At first Stella had a hard time operating the mouse. The arthritis in her hands makes it hard to flex her fingers. Fortunately, she seems to have mastered that problem since she discovered a computer card game, which gives her plenty of mouse practice. “Something’s wrong with my solitary (solitaire),” she announced the other day. “I was winning quite often but now I keep on losing. I pressed the help button but it wasn’t much help.”
Donnie will check that out, of course, but meanwhile Stella’s having the time of her life, connecting with her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, many of whom live far away. She has seen live video of Emily’s first tooth, Kaya’s first puppy, Samantha’s first haircut and George’s first smile, without even leaving her home. And the best part is that Skype video calls are free. When I asked how it feels to be a Cyber Nana, the answer was written all over her face.
“It’s a real scream,” she laughed. “Sometimes I’m watching TV, talking on the phone and talking to three people on Skype, all at the same time.” Then she threw her hands in the air and added, “Today I got mixed up and tried to turn on the television with my mouse.”
(Stella will soon be hosting a UCW meeting at her home where she plans to show the ladies how she uses Skype to talk to her cousin in England.)
Sandra Stretch-Reed is the mother of two grown children, a teacher and a freelance writer. “My head is full of stories and articles and I sometimes have to stop myself from writing,” she says, “because it could easily become an obsession. That’s how I know I’m a writer!”
Here, There, but Nowhere
By Diane Walsh (c) Media Geode GTI Inc., 2009
Pink houses in small-town America. Certainly not the dream anymore. Not April’s anyway – that’s for damn sure – Midwestern, Middle-American, forty-something bitter femme with an axe to grind. No, April had spontaneously and out-of-the blue decided to escape to Kathmandu (of all the ridiculous places to choose). But she thinks to herself with a squint in her eye: I had better call my buddy, Mick, to let him know.
Dropping the bomb, she says to him, “I’m so sorry to do this to you, Mick; I know how much you love coming to my yearly Christmas party. You’ll have to be the one to take it up from now on – I’m handing it over to you, Buckaroo!”
April’s usual splendid, splashing year-end neighbourhood party would disappointingly for him and others never take place anymore; emphasis being: never April mutters to herself, quietly gritting her teeth.
“Brother, so you’re telling me you’re not just ducking out temporarily. You’re quitting as community-hostess permanently. April, what brought this on?”
Mick was secretly pleased.
He had absolutely no intention of becoming the goodie-goodie neighbour – being the one to stand in for the party just to accommodate people’s expectations. He had come to be ashamed of his reputation on the block: the jolly-jolly single guy who globs onto the friendly couple, gaining nothing but the privilege to attend a social functions and eat April’s turkey; each year, more and more dry. Mick persists, “Did you convince Bill that escaping, albeit temporarily, to a bizarre foreign land was the antidote for suburban misery?” Mick tried to sound interested in April’s rationale for simply taking off.
“Yah, brother; actually, yes, I’ve come to the conclusion I need more than just a tan from Arizona – I need a radical change of environment. But not only do I need some time away from this godforsaken place; Bill’s not coming with me.” Full stop. Said April in a disturbingly nonchalant manner.
Curious, but not wanting to appear too nosy, Mick inquired delicately, “Oh… can’t he get the time off work?”
“Nope. He’s left me. He packed one suitcase, strapped it to the back of his bike and simply rode off! He said ‘to have a better life without me.’ A Bertrand Russell copycat, as far as I’m concerned, whom I understand did the very same thing to his wife more than a quarter of a century ago.”
“What? That doesn’t sound like Bill. You’re joking, surely. I didn’t know he had a bike,” Mick responded rather ridiculously.
“…’fraid not, Mick. It’s no laugh. It’s Bill, all right. Ah! I was getting a tired of the phony disguise that was our life together, myself. But it was he who decided to do something characteristically inane – yet again. This time, by doing the leaving: on a bike.”
Exasperated, Mick said, “But I saw you together just last week and you seemed fine – a perfectly happily married, dinky couple.”
“We were good actors – like everybody else ‘round here in a cheesier version of Wisteria Lane. Look at you Mick – who the heck are you anyway?”
Mick was totally spooked, once believing his facade had been working well for him. He’d never seen April so raw – it actually kind of turned him on. “I’m going to ignore that remark, seeing as you’re obviously under severe stress from this. Tell me; with whom are you going to that unusual destination of Kathmandu?
“The girls from work.”
“Oh. Hmm, what girls? I never knew you were close enough to anyone at work that you’d want to travel with them.” Mick realized he was sounding proprietary. He didn’t want to give it away, how, inwardly, his heart was thumping like a branch flapping in a storm. ‘Had April found something out?’ he wondered to himself. Thoroughly doubting April’s chummy story, Mick listened onward. Rather intently, too, to this gratuitous expression of fast friendship with these apparent girls.
“You should know. Funny isn’t it, how they’ve suddenly become my best friends.”
Growing suspicious of the role of these girls, whom Mick knew to be spying women ‘bout town, he continued to puzzle over April’s story in his own head: ‘Where’s Bill? If he did leave, why didn’t he tip me off or even call to say goodbye?’ He began to feel a sense of betrayal.
As if knowing what was going through Mick’s mind April reassured him: “Bill will phone you Mick; I’m counting on it. You guys stick together. But, the point is, I feel I’m entitled to some R&R and some female bonding. Aren’t I?” April said snidely. “I mean, my husband just walked out on me – Blimey! Actually cycled out on me!”
As far as the gravity of the situation was concerned, Mick felt April was over-emphasizing the bike exit, to the point that he began to wonder if he should be believing any of it. Her use of the term ‘female bonding’ in the context of what he had to hide made him feel more than a little uncomfortable. Not wishing to disclose his emotions, “Of course you are entitled to relax, considering the emotional whirlwind you must be going thorough.” Mike was trying to draw April out.
He continued on with his inquiry. “But it’s just that you two are, like, my best friends, and Bill never, never said a word to me about having major problems at home. Are you sure he’s really left? I’m wondering April… if you guys aren’t short of money, which would explain why he hasn’t mentioned said anything to me. Clearly he’s embarrassed.”
No answer from April.
Fishing to find out whether April and Bill were short of money did nothing to help Mick acquire any more information about why his buddy might have left his wife in haste – if in fact he did leave. Mick wrestled with his own personal possibilities of explanation of what might have happened to Bill. He thought to himself, ‘Bill never did anything radical without telling me, especially thinking about or, worse, actually leaving his wife!
Mick blurted out to April, “Are you sure he’s not just pissed off and he’ll be back?”
“Yep, I’m sure. He’s emptied the savings accounts.”
‘Well, if that was so,’ thought Mick, ‘then it wouldn’t be possible for April to take off to Africa or wherever the heck she said she was going for a Christmas relaxation. For a woman who’s just been left, she doesn’t seem devastated by the whole thing. More to the point, she seems perfectly neutral. Very odd.’
Mick probed on, “But, April, you don’t even seem upset. Is there another man?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A logical one.”
“Really – is that so? When you’re suppose to be Mr. Buddy-buddy.” April was clearly stalling. “Get real! Like I pulled some guy out of a hat and he’s taking me – a forty-nine-year-old cleaning lady – on holiday, and the girls are made up, right?”
“Exactly. I want to meet these girls.”
“You can.” They will be here momentarily. In fact, why don’t you consider coming with us? Oh, then again, I forgot; Bill was your favourite.”
Again ignoring April’s sneering remarks, Mick quickly retorted, “That would be crazy – I can’t go with you! Bill is my best friend. What are you trying to pull?” Mick was angry now. He thought to himself, ‘I certainly didn’t want to open that can of worms. Bill and he had been so discreet; there’s no way she knows.’
“I thought you said I was your best friend,” April said, a coy toss of her head.
“For goodness sake – this is insane. I’m getting off the phone right now! I’ll call you later.” Mick slammed down the phone.
To himself: he didn’t know what to make of the whole conversation. He wasn’t sure what to do since he wasn’t able to ascertain whether April actually had anything on him. It wasn’t clear to him whether she knew what Bill and he had been up to. There was derision in her voice, but it so happened she had always had that tone toward him. So it was hard measure if it had any new meaning. She had always been jealous of Mick’s friendship with Bill. Mick decided he needed to do some damage control. For his own peace of mind, he needed to find Bill – make sure Bill hadn’t, in the heat of an argument with April, exposed their proclivities and then regretted it so intensely that he’d had to bolt from both Mick and April.
The thought of losing Bill horrified Mick. He picked up the receiver again and dialed Bill’s cell. (Ring-ring.) Nothing. He redialed. Again, no answer. Why wouldn’t Bill answer his phone? And why didn’t he tell me what he was up to? Where the heck is he? Something did not sit right with Mick. The sudden disappearance was out of Bill’s character. Mick knew this intuitively. Emptying a bank account, as April suggested he had done, was also out of character.
Mick looked at the clock and retired to bed, turning on the TV to numb-ease his angst and confusion. Gazing at the screen, he heard the tail end of a news story about a mangled bike with blood-smeared handlebars. Abandoned, with no sign of an injured rider; reported by some kids playing near a ravine, less than fifty miles from Rockcliffe – coincidently – his very neighbourhood.
He panicked – not knowing precisely why he should be so certain that there was a connection to Bill. He had no details on the circumstances of the lead – it wasn’t clear from the news story that there had even been a crash, but fright stirred as he thought that his friend could be injured. Had Bill driven himself off the nearby cliff? Had April driven him to it by confronting him about a secret? But which secret? There were so many. Mick was churning himself into a worried, paranoid frenzy. What if it is Bill and he’s dead? He realized his thoughts were ludicrous. There’s no connection, he told himself over and over.
By now, the television anchor had moved on to report another story. Mick decided that he would not be able to check out the full sequence of the story until sometime later, when the news was repeated at the top of the hour.
The dreadful feeling Mick had inside did not dissipate. He tossed the whole night through. Had April found anything out? Mick’s mind obsessed. He, himself, would look for Bill in the morning. Figuring he could intercept Bill on his way to work, he set his clock at the uncomfortable hour of six a.m. He wanted to make sure they got their stories straight.
The next morning, Mick skipped his shower, as that was the way Bill liked him, and headed straight for Bleak City, where Bill worked as a foreman at the smelter. He arrived a hair before half-past-six. He scanned the factory parking lot but failed to see Bill’s truck. Squinting through the windowpane of the administration office, he saw the receptionist was already seated and poised to open for business. But no sign of Bill – notably an early riser and a favourite at the factory for always being the one to turn the machines on for his coworkers.
Bill’s office was the next adjoining windowpane closest to reception. The drapes were still drawn. Mick waited in his car in front of Bill’s window and watched. Ten, then twenty minutes went by. Still no sign of Bill. At eight o’clock, Mick strode into reception and asked when Bill was expected.
“He’s usually here by now. I just checked voicemail and there’s nothing about him not coming in,” said the receptionist.
“Okay, I’ll wait.” Mick grabbed a coffee from the waiting area and went back to the parking lot. I know, I’ll call April. No answer; not even an outgoing answering machine message. How odd, he thought. April’s usually pretty good about turning the machine on when she’s away from the phone. Mick phoned Bill’s cell. No answer or voicemail there either; just ringing. Peculiar. Realizing that all this sleuthing would not pay his own phone bill, Mick darted back to his car and raced to his own office in Sludge County, just over Trickle Hill bypass.
He could not concentrate. He left to check all the favourite haunts he’d frequented with Bill. No sign of him. When he returned home that night, he called April again.
“Oh, thank God you’re home. Bill didn’t show up at work today and that surprised me, given he’s such a keener – you know, he never misses a day’s work!” Mick squealed this out, feeling exasperated about not having found Bill after all his efforts.”
“Who?” April puzzled.
“April!” Mick screamed, “Bill… your partner!”
“I’m sorry; I don’t know anyone named Bill.”
“Have you gone completely mad? You told me yesterday he left with suitcase in hand and I understood that you guys had broken up!”
“I’m sorry, Mick… are you feeling all right? I told you, I don’t know anyone named Bill. Are you ok?”
“If this is some kind of sick joke you’ve cooked up, pretending you don’t know him anymore because you think it will be easier to just move on and party…”
“Mick, get a hold of yourself. I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t know anyone named Bill.”
Mick dropped the phone and ran outside. He jumped the adjoining yard fence and raced up Bill and April’s front steps. As he peered into the window, he did not see a trace of Bill and April’s décor. Everything was different; the paint colour on the walls, the pictures… all changed.
He rang the bell. April answered, looking unshaken. “Mick, what are you doing?”
“What am I doing… what are you doing? You think you can just eliminate Bill.”
“Mick, I don’t know what you are talking about. Who is this Bill?”
“That’s it. I’m calling the police.”
“Why, Mick?”
“Because you’ve lost your mind!”
“No, Mick, I think you should sit down and tell me what’s happened to you.”
“Nothing’s happened to me. Something’s happened to you. Bill’s left. He didn’t go to work this morning and now you’re denying you ever knew him!”
“Mick – settle down. You must be…”
The next time Mick saw the light of day, he realized he was in a hospital corridor. Frantically, he tore at the tightly fitted sheets cocooning him, to expose a baby-blue gown and bare, shaved legs.
In a frenzy, he bolted off the bed and ran down the hall. A nurse intercepted him at the elevator. “Mr. Larvae, you must go back. You are in no condition to be up.”
“Go back where? I seem to have been abandoned in a hallway. Why am I even here?”
“I think you know,” the nurse said in a patronizing tone.
He was briskly escorted back. The nurse settled Mick onto his cot. Mick began to wonder if he was truly awake. He decided he would let the nurse turn her back and exit the room, wait a few minutes so she would think he was in repose and then he would make his escape. Lifetimes of time seemed to pass by. Finally, not seeing anyone in view, he sneaked down the corridor, found what seemed to be an endless stairwell downward, and skedaddled, hospital gown flowing behind him. Once out on the road, he ran until he saw an old man walking. He asked if he could have a quarter. The old man gave him four quarters. He thanked him profusely and ran past, looking for the closest phone booth. He thought he saw one across the way but looking down, he felt his freezing toes and realized he was standing in a mud-drenched, grassy spot.
Cold earth on his feet and his robe damp from sweat and outdoor air, he crashed into the phone booth’s shutter-doors, pouncing at the phone. He dialed his friend, Bill’s, cellphone number. He heard the recording: “This is not an assigned number.” Confused and bewildered, he called information to try and get Bill’s work number. He called it, asking for Bill Trigger. The voice at the other end replied, “I’m sorry, but no one with that name works here.” Mick whimpered, “but… that can’t be right… can you please check again?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve worked here for thirteen years and I’ve never heard of anyone with that name working here and that’s certainly a name I’d remember!”
Mick dropped the phone. He called April’s number. Same message: “This is not an assigned number.”
Mick slumped to the ground. He thought he felt ripples on his feet… an image of himself trapped in a small puddle of water came over him. With the rain beating down, dazed and exhausted, he questioned if he was not sitting in some sort of wetland. With what appeared to be muddy ridges on both sides of him and a sort of crevasse beneath him, he sunk deeper into sticky gunk, wondering all the while if he wasn’t in that ravine. He muttered to himself: ‘she’s got the bill.’
A nurse’s bell sounded.
DIANE WALSH, MA, is a freelance writer based in the Pacific Northwest. Her background is in political science and policy writing for government, with an interest in liberal and creative fine arts. She often explores the Greater Seattle region by bike or canoe and enjoys hiking and spending time on Vancouver Island, where she has family and friends. She spent several years in San Francisco and London, England.