Chill

The wind tore through my hat and gloves, deepening the chill I had endured all morning. Days like this, when the sun was high and the clouds nonexistent, the cold seemed to fall down from heaven, as though humans must all be punished for their wrongs.

And we certainly deserved the scolding. After all, we pretty much cornered the market on sin, between the popular ones like murder and lust, and the coveting of our neighbours and of course, the old cussing the big guy's name, we had them all covered. Add a few extras to the mix like polluting our only habitable planet or annihilating a few species so we can eat more bland and unhealthy hamburgers, well, we deserved the freezing out.

The Nordic countries had it right -- that hell isn't hot at all, it's actually cold. Because when you've been cold, for an extended period of time, you know what it means to feel a mixture of pain, fear, and frustration. No matter how fast you move, you can't get warm. If you break into a sweat, the moisture only makes it worse. You need heat, fire, shelter, anything to get away from it, to chase down the demon cold and blast it back where it came from.

Epic Hermit

Thanks to Amy for the phrase.
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Raena was an epic hermit, the kind of woman who only left the house when absolutely necessary. She ordered what she needed from the internet, had her friends drop by with things she couldn't get on her own, and generally speaking, enjoyed the peace and solace of her environment.

Friends, you ask? How could the woman have made friends? Well, she had her on-line friends, and the people who had been a part of her life before. Back when she felt connected to her family, especially her children. In the time when she could hop out of bed eager to face the day, or find a smile as easily as a pencil.

Raena's mother had always spoken of the essential components of contentment: giving more than receiving, nurturing empathy, and following the rules of etiquette. Raena had made choices based on these simple rules, thinking each time about the best possible outcomes, the maximum benefit to all, the road worth taking.

Epic failure.

The part her mother hadn't foreseen was the inevitable randomization that outside inputs could bring to the equation of life. Car accidents. Hormones. Bad luck. These were the jokers in Raena's deck, the extra cards her mother had forgotten to remove before she handed the cards to her daughter. And so, life turned more cloistered than congenial.

The Brainstormed Topic List

Last night, for my 100 words, I brainstormed a list of topics I "know something about" as background for my next novel. In many, I'm sure as heck no expert, but at least I've "been there, done that" in a roundabout manner. Here's the list, in no particular order, with some important ones no doubt left out since I was very tired at the time:

Toronto
Kitchener
University of Waterloo
Math
Teaching
Pampered Chef
Singing
Rock Bands
Writing
Reading
Ballet
Hockey
Motherhood
Daycare
Boys
Beavers, Cubs, Brownies, Girl Guides
Cooking
Baking
Cleaning
Single moms
Swimming
Pools
Gardening
BBQing
Air travel
Boats
Fishing
Canoeing
Hiking
SF conventions
Movies
Typing
Answering phones
Help Desks
Home renovations
Painting
Knitting
Running
Aerobics
Bowling
Skating
Divorce
Financial planning
Lawyers
Husbands
Passive agressiveness
Romantic Love
Lovemaking
Dating
Kissing
Barbies
Skipping
Jumpsies
Ball games
Riding a bike
The Elderly
Dimensia
Nursing homes
Blind people
Picnics
Hostess etiquette
Puppies
Cats
Rats
Hamsters
Fish keeping
Mice
Woodstoves
Campfires
Day camps
Overnight camps
Outdoor concerts
Fountain pens
Notebooks
Computers
Blackberries (the devices, not the fruit)
Dresses
Orthotics
Physiotherapy

Spike

Someone had planted a spike in the driveway, though on closer inspection, it was more of a tack than a spike. Either way, it jabbed through Gertie's girlie tire like a hot knife through Jello.

It had been named such by her previous lover, Abdu, who had insisted that he had never, ever, scraped the side of the tire along a sidewalk while parallel parking, and that the giant bulge must have been caused by a manufacturing defect in her pathetically thin, sporty tires which were obviously too delicate for any kind of serious driving.

Hence the term, girlie-tire.

If Abdu hadn't been out of the picture for months, he would have immediately come to mind as the first suspect in the tack-spike sabotage. However, since he had moved back to Armenia, his innocence was above reproach.

Gus, the pool guy, had been skulking around the driveway on the previous day, angry over being accused of once again using the cabana towels for his own benefit. He was such a heavy perspirer, always wanting to dab at his brow, and other less-appealing places, and the thought of wiping himself and then folding the towel up and returning it to the clean pile was enough to turn Gertie into a mad woman.

Sure of herself, Gertie slammed the car door in disgust, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed the number for the pool cleaning service, convinced that Gus should not only be fired, but humiliated in some fashion.

Bear

A bear is a nasty creature, hunting through garbage, chasing your pet dog, but mostly cavorting through the woods ready to slice your throat soon as look at you. Granted, not all bear varieties are quite that nasty, especially black bears that are essentially big deer with sharp teeth. Grizzlies, however, are as mean as they come, and polar bears, despite their cute and cuddly reputation via the Coca Cola advertising campaigns, will eat your child on the way to school if provided the opportunity.

Glen studied the grizzlies for his PhD, following a trio of males who had all been darted, tagged, and released. Each had a GPS tracker embedded in the skin under his ear so that several students and rangers could follow their patterns. Glen's favourite of the three was specimen 23A8LBT, affectionately referred to as Labert, or Bert for short.

Bert had no Ernie, for grizzlies are solitary creatures. His primary den was situated below two overhangs, and in between two spruce, making it relatively dry, sheltered from the wind, and easy to defend. Glen had never visited the site in person, for that was a risk no human would make. Instead, he studied it via a variety of satellite images, not only less adventurous, but also woefully inadequate. If Glen didn't have a partner, Johnny, waiting back home every night, he would have taken the risk and visited Bert's place during one of the helicopter treks.

Ah to be young and have nothing to lose.

Farm

Silvia spent her afternoons dreaming of owning a farm. Not the kind with acre upon acre of one crop. No, hers was the random sort, with a different crop in every row, a barn zoo-full of variety, and a big, drafty house built of hand-piled stones and with less than a dozen electrical outlets.

She relished the notion of leaving the computer-centric world, reading a dog-eared paperback novel by the light of a fire rather than wasting her time online, making pretend food and chatting with moved-away friends.

Instead, the four flat-screen monitors displayed her many tasks-in-progress. The first, always filled with lines of code, poetry mixed with crudeness, the fodder of corporate existence. The second monitor for emails, as memos flew through the office like dragonflies, faster and more efficient than face to face communication. The art of conversation had such covens to blame for its annihilation. The third, a debugging screen, the mistress for screen number one. And lastly, her favourite, a web browser, her gateway to escape, her connection beyond the cubicle walls, her lover, her compadre, her salvation.

The post-lunch sleepiness always hit her the hardest during her monthly week of misery. Chocolate scraped the edge of it away, but could never fully contain the wrath of hormone-induced depression. These were her least productive days, during which the notion of a simpler life flooded her beyond the hundred-year-line. On such afternoons, her misfortunes could not only be counted, they could be placed in a ledger and profited upon.

Tomorrow

I attended a Ceili last night, including an hour and a half drive each way. So the first word today is technically for yesterday. Another post for today follows. Thanks to Michael for the word.

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Why do concepts like, "tomorrow" exist? After all, we can never get there. Because as soon as we think we've found tomorrow, it turns out to be merely today.

I used to dream about tomorrow, imagining who I would be, what kind of accolades I had earned in my ambitious pursuits, what manners of love would envelope my heart from my myriad of friends and relatives. Which sort of lifestyle I embraced.

But now, my dreams are night visions, endless traps where I cannot find the room where the final exam will be written, or my apartment has no lock and the neighbours continue to ransack my meagre possessions. In them, I call out the name of my beloved and he does not come. Instead, I succumb to another humiliation at the hands of my enemies.

I wake exhausted, wondering whether the day will bring any comfort. Routine becomes my security: the granola with the almonds, the left side of the bus, second seat from the window, the PVR with its endless supply of manufactured conflict in digital form.

Life awaits me, but only tomorrow. For today, I will simply exist.

Bob & Tree

Sally leaned against her favourite tree, a willow she affectionately referred to as Bob, and imagined the life she would never have.

A man held her hand, his fingers gently brushing against her pale skin. His lips touched at the nape of her neck, whispered his undying love, an emotion fuelled by her extraordinary beauty. If only such a man existed. If only Sally could stare at her reflection and not want to avert her eyes.

Bob's upper branches swayed ever so slightly in the thick afternoon, more as a defence against the hot sun than from the non-existent breeze. The humidity gave his leaves a heady scent that Sally found more uncomfortable than soothing.

"Bob," she said, "you need a shower. Preferably a solid downpour to rinse this afternoon away. I've had enough of the heat, thank you very much."

"We all have," came a voice behind her.

Sally turned and saw a boy. No, a man, actually, of such a short stature that on first glance she had mistaken him for a child. He wasn't small in the manner where his hands and feet were disproportionate to the rest of the body: a dwarf or midget, she could never remember the proper label.

"Bob, introduce us, please," she said.

"I'm sorry, did I miss something? Is Bob your invisible boyfriend? Or is he an extremely small dog?"

Sally laughed. "The tree. Bob is my tree."

"Ha!" he countered. "Her name isn't Bob, it's Bonnie."

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Thanks to Michael and Stephanie for the words.

Twister

The clouds looked ominous, the kind that held a twister deep inside them, just itching to thrust down and devour hope like a starving dog eating the flesh of its undiscovered, deceased owner.

Mags shifted down, nudging her decrepit Ford to pick up enough speed to get her home before the worst of it. The tachometer needle bounced up and down, trying to relay the ancient truck's discomfort at being pushed beyond reason.

"Better to hurt you a little, than lose you completely, old gurl," she said.

Somehow, anthropomorphizing her vehicle had coaxed a few extra years out of her. That and Blaz, the handsome mechanic who loved the Ford as much as he loved Mags.

"Blaz will have a Thermos of coffee waiting for us in the shop. You get us home and I'll make sure you're safe under the pit roof."

The tachometer settled in, hovering between 3500 and 4000 rpm, enough to rev the engine loudly, but not enough to burn anything beyond functionality.

Mags glanced in the rear view mirror, and caught sight of a funnel cloud. It hadn't touched down yet, was still debating the pros and cons of silos versus big box stores, town versus country, when first the front, then the back wheels hit something big and hard. Shaken, Mags yanked at the wheel, trying to regain control, but failing. And with an ugly skid, she splayed herself right into the ditch.

"Damn." She slammed the steering wheel hard, too hard, as the column snapped and the wheel dropped into her lap.

Behind, the twister had landed and begun to suck back debris like a cold beer.

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Thanks to Amy for the word.

Hummingbird

Killing Eddie exceeded my expectations, like only a hummingbird can exceed the speed at which we process movement. I thought I would've felt at least a hint of guilt, maybe even shame, but no. Definitely not.

All these years, I knew the backhoe would eventually come in handier than a Robertson screwdriver on a long-haul space flight. I dug a hole so deep into the Martian surface that I could've covered up another xenocide, had the first one not wiped out the complete galaxial contingent of Peranzians. Then with an unceremonious thump, I dumped the Edster all the way to the bottom, along with a few of his prized possessions. Except for his penis. Its afterward would involve some creative manipulation of dead tissue.

Using the backhoe to refill the hole turned out to be trickier. All the fine Martian dust kept blowing more than filling, until I ran out of a pile of dirt and my hole was still clearly noticeable. I mapped out the area with surveyor's tape to stop some kid from falling in, ATV and all. Caution tape would've been more suitable, but I had to go with what I had. And the pinky-orange hue seemed appropriate for a guy so hung up on the masculine color palette.

Asleep

Lisa would fall asleep only when she was too exhausted to go on. She planned her nights this way, for experience had been a fine teacher. Twelve cracks in the ceiling, six flies trapped in the light fixture, seventy-two joints in the wood floor. Counting helped to pass the time when her mind flooded with countless embarrassments.

She had a knack for remembering the worst moments in her life. There had been so many during her forty-two years. Awkward silences at the lunch table when her story shocked the others, groceries spilled in the parking lot from poorly packed bags, lovemaking that ended with dissatisfaction and hard feelings. She would have sold her soul for a cup of grace, if only she knew how.

But even the devil left her alone, too busy with the more important people of the world -- the beauties, the rich, the loved.

"Lisa?"

The man from the second floor, the tall one with the beard and big feet. He always smelled of coffee in the elevator, like he'd showered in grounds rather than water.

"How do you know my name?"

He pointed at her chest, at the sticky Hello-my-name-is tag, a remnant from the client appreciation breakfast.

"I'm Al," he said, offering his hand.

She reached out to grip it, missed, tried again, and connected. His smile was awkward, or maybe it was genuine. She'd lost the ability to discriminate between the two.

Broken

Ange's heart was broken on the day that the world collapsed. While the survivors around her struggled to find food, clothing, and shelter, she lay oblivious to it all in bed and cried; for the man she loved, for the agony of rejection, and for the cruelty of fate.

Leonard had been so handsome, with delicate lines that creased at the edges of his eyes when a thought amused him. His touch had been so tender, as though any more force might tear through the world which, it turns out, had been made of the thinnest of parchment. Ange believed that he had loved her, for the words often drifted from his lips in the midst of their lovemaking. No man had ever enveloped her, wrapped her body in the luxury of his loins until she had lost herself in his woodsy musk.

Someone pounded on the door. "Angela! Are you in there?"

"Go away, Mother."

"Thank God. Oh sweetie I've been so worried. Let me in."

"Let yourself in."

"I don't have your key."

Ange sat up, curious how her mother could possibly be without a key. After all, the woman kept it next to her own car key on the ring, Ange had seen it a hundred times.

More banging. "Angela?"

"Damn." She threw the covers off and her body tensed from the cold of the room. The heat must have failed for she could see her breath in the air. She wrapped her arms tightly against her chest trying to stop the shivers and opened the door.

What stood in the hallway could not possibly have been her mother. The woman never wore anything but a power suit, complete with high heels and matching jewellery. And yet there she stood, in worn jeans and heavy winter boots, a flannel plaid collar poking above the Gortex jacket. And her hair, for the first time in her life the strands hung limp and lifeless, oily even, as though she'd lost her mind overnight and the hair drying along with it.

Tears

Tears in real life don't slowly drip down one side of a woman's face like they do in the movies. Sometimes they pour out in clumps, as if an old creek bed was suddenly flooded and raged along makeshift valleys. Minellia's tears were no exception.

For the last week, she cried each night until her body could no longer produce a sound or even shudder. Somehow the darkness was the hardest -- lying alone in the bed she had once shared with Rebbo. His death had shocked the community, and though her friends and neighbours comforted her, brought her warm meals that she couldn't keep down, and kept her hearth ablaze, they were unable to reduce the monstrous chasm ripping through her insides.

A second, not even two, of bad luck. A rock falling at just the wrong moment, a shoe lace undone. How could Rebbo's life be reduced by such involuntary timing?

A soft knock at the door.

Minellia rolled onto her back, wiped her face with sheets, and attempted to call out. But her throat would not cooperate.

She forced herself out of bed and staggered for the door.

"Yes?"

"Minellia? It's Hapu. May come in?"

"It's late, Hapu."

"Please?"

She opened the door enough to peer out at the young man. His clothes were dusty, as though he'd been riding all day.

Plan

Every time I plan something good, it falls flat. Okay, not every single time, but enough times for the whole concept to royally piss me off. But does it stop me from making plans anyway. Big, elaborate plans?

Not a chance.

This weekend was no different. I'd chose the food, the tasks, even the background music. The invitations went out to the usual suspects. I cleaned the toilet and put away the laundry. I was ready for the par-tay.

Nobody showed.

Well okay, that girl from work, the one I sometimes knit with at lunch, she showed. Brought her knitting bag, too. So we gossiped and looped yarn over needles like a couple of old maids. At least that's not a term that most people use these days. I believe the correct term is flop.

No. LOSER.

That's me. I do my best to get my ducks in a row, but sooner or later I have to face the fact that they're the rubber-duck variety, like kids use in the bathtub, and they've sprung leaks, and bathwater has been sitting inside them for too long so if you squeeze them a blackish crud-pool of bacterial disgust will ooze out of them.

But they're in a row.

Except for that last one.

But we won't talk about him.

Wait

She hated to wait, more than brussel sprouts, squeaking Styrofoam, or spit. The worst was enduring a ticking clock on a day when she forgot to wear a watch.

She stood at the curb, doing her best to not appear as though she waited for someone to pick her up. Yet that was exactly her intention. Except for the part where she knew the man who would eventually arrive for her.

He didn't own a watch. He "gave them up" in a fit of retro-hippie popularity-inducing absurdity. He claimed that people had natural internal clocks and that anything important would naturally work out.

As if.

She crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her bare arm and mentally forcing herself to NOT grind her teeth. He'll be here soon. He wants to see you. He's only stuck in traffic. The mantra did little to reassure her fears that he simply wouldn't remember their date.

What did that say about her? Was she unmemorable? Had he tired of her? Should she return to the office and bury herself in work? Was he worth it?

Yes. Her only sure thought was that he was most definitely worth it. More than anyone she'd ever had the misfortune of dating. More than the sweet taste of honey on Melba Toast. More than sunshine after a long rain.

One

It is possible to enjoy a meal at a table for one. I shouldn't need to have a book or a companion for the food to taste good. The cuisine should stand up on its own merit. Sushi can. Believe me. I've counted on it before.

The Japanese have mastered food presentation -- the small plates, ergonomic cups and bowls -- its art more than sustenance. The tapered chopsticks are akin to sexy legs as they stretch on forever into kissable points.

I close my eyes and allow the tuna to melt on the tip of my tongue. I squeeze the wooden tips together and grip a slice of ginger so thin it must have been carved with a razor blade. With a gentle stir, the settling miso realigns into a soup once more and I drink it like a soothing cup of cocoa.

It's heaven.

Cold

The tea was cold, having sat untouched for hours while I typed. One word after another. One sentence followed the previous. Until I'd delete it all and start again.

I sipped the tea, then spit it back into my cup. I'd steep another pot, maybe after I hit a thousand words. Maybe eight hundred. Five would barely be work. God damn, they just wouldn't come.

I saved my unchanged file for the seventeenth time -- gotta love prime numbers -- and paced around the house. The curtains weren't closed properly so I straightened them. The washing machine had finished so I transferred the clothes to the dryer. The phone showed two recent calls so I scrolled through the call log until the blinky-green light turned off.

My watch must have been wrong. Had to have been less than an hour since I typed a meaningful sentence of text. Had to.

The phone rang. I should've let the machine take the call, but I could afford another ten minutes. My father. He wanted me to bring him chips. I told him no, his blood pressure was too high. We argued. I ultimately agreed to bring him popcorn.

Thirty minutes less in my time slot. I had to make at least three hundred words or I couldn't even count it as writing.

With the kettle filled and plugged in, I rinsed out the tea pot and dropped in another bag. I watched it fall to the bottom. What little water remained as residue at the bottom of the empty pot seeped into the bag and coloured itself pink. Cranberry tea. It was my last line of defence on a wordless day.

Judgement

Her judgement faltered, in herself, in her relationships, in every task she ever performed. Though she tried to make good choices and she held onto the belief that she maintained a sense of right and wrong, she sabotaged her life, one mistake at a time.

In her sessions with her therapist, she dodged the issue. Always bringing up more pressing concerns like the promotion at work that didn't pan out or the chemo therapy her father endured. The mechanics of her mess, the truths behind why she fell for emotionally unavailable men or why she loved her cat more than herself, these she kept buried, locked, and isolated.

Love hurt. Men didn't like her, they used her. Sustainable relationships were a myth. The mantra of despair to live by.

She cycled through destructive behaviours. One week, she would eat and snack until she made herself sick. The next she would visit the gym every day, doing two maybe even three aerobics classes to distract herself from sadness. The worst, though, was when she would visit her mother's grave and sob, after work each night, sharing her grief with the only person who had seemed to understand her. The net result bought her more unhappiness and a bigger sense of loss for the life she wished she had.

If only she could dig herself out of the dungeon she'd built. If only she could secure happiness without tying it to a man she'd never truly understand. If only life would cut her some slack.

Steam

She painted shadows with steam. Each one a fleeting work of art embossed on acrylic, porcelain, and chrome. Though they captured her mood, they could not hold it for more than a few moments once her body moved away.

Her hand touched the cold faucet, leaving a curve reminiscent of the worn slopes of ancient mountains long eroded by time's passage. When she submerged her hand in the tub once more, she watched the mountain evaporate, reducing to a thin line and then gone.

Pressing her heels against the far side of the tub, she left mid-air footprints in white sand. One after another, her toe prints left a trail of mystery. Where did she travel? What had she seen? Whose lives had she touched.

Many lives.

And like the friends who fade when circumstances change, the prints scattered, leaving her alone.

So dreadfully alone.

Hike

The hike through the woods always brought a sense of peace. The oxygen, the tall boughs, and the whispering of leaf against leaf in the wind.

She stepped carefully, keeping her feet low to the ground and her eyes ahead on the trail. A squirrel darted across her path and scurried up a tree.

"Good day to you sir. Or are you a madam?"

The creature did not respond.

Further along, the trees grew closer to the path and roots stuck up, tripping her more often than not. She searched for each step, cautious of brown bumps. But they hid themselves well, eager to bring her to their level.

They succeeded.

Her pants torn, and her knee scraped, she struggled back to her feet. "I won't let you win. I'm smarter than you give me credit for."

After a steep climb, she dodged a pair of beech trees growing around each other and rounded a corner. Beyond the path, a brook beckoned. She eased down to a rock in the middle and dipped her fingers in the cool water.

Unsure of its cleanliness, she hesitated before cleansing her scrapes. The coolness won out and she dabbled relief on her aches.

"Thank you, brook, for your kindness."

"Do you expect it to answer?"

She spun around to find a man, handsome and strong, standing within arm's reach.