Little Spokes

Mathilde was tired. Down to the bone weary and sore. Her back was an ancient tree grown tough with knots. Dinner was not made. Not even started. Gerard would be back from the auction in less than an hour. She needed to get moving but damned if she felt like washing and stringing beans, frying meat and chopping potatoes after the bitch of a day she’d had. The cow had given birth. Early. And breech. She’d seen the skinny little butt poking out, known there was trouble. But the vet hadn’t answered the phone. She’d had to do it all herself. Not that she minded usually but with the breech it was whole different matter. Arms sheathed in rubber gloves right up to the elbows, poking and pulling in the slippery mess. She knew what birth was. Had experienced it enough herself. It was part of the natural cycle. But the hot squirming pile of weak limbs had made her sick. She couldn’t get a grip on anything and the mother cow kept trying to kick her. She couldn’t blame it. Who wanted someone pulling at you from the inside, tearing at your most private parts, even if it was in the name of life? And after it all, the calf had come out blue. After all her hard work, the stupid thing hadn’t been strong enough to fight too, to survive the ugliness of the world. Gerard was of course blame her. Her incompetence. Her weakness. But she was like the mother cow, strong enough to withstand all the pain and still keep kicking. She could still smell the blood and afterbirth on her hands though she had scoured them and soaked them in vinegar. She had buried the calf up the hill, by a rock, breaking the hard earth with a shovel and later her bare hands. The calf was heavy in hear arms. By the time she reached the top the hill, her blouse was soaked in sweat but she wanted to make sure to bury the calf where nobody would disturb its remains and vice versa. It was a safe place. So far nobody had found the other remains, the eight infants she had buried here over the years, eight tiny spokes in the natural cycle. Mathilde began to scrub the potatoes with such force her knuckles bled under the scrubber’s bristles. Gerard would be back in less than an hour and he would expect dinner to be ready.

White Death

We ambled down the railway tracks, waiting for the sound of a train, a rumble beneath our feet; waiting to run. You asked me for a ghost story. I was momentarily at a loss. Neon lights and gory special effects filled the dark spaces, leaving no room for shadows. Then, the play of moonlight on your face and the broken windows of the burnt out factory inspired me to tug at a loose thread of memory. I pointed to the old sugar refinery and, with a voice laden with smoke and warm beer, began my tale.
The building didn’t always look like that. Well that much is obvious even to you I’m sure. Once it was alive. The blood of workers beat in its veins, the thump of machinery was the beat of its heart, the hot air that dried the sugar was its breath and always, always was the air was full of the smell of its sticky sweetness, a sweat that oozed from its floorboards and rafters. Nowadays, white sugar is almost a bad word. People want their raw sugar, their honey their stevia but back then white sugar was gold and the process of spinning and crystallization was damn near alchemy.
I inhaled deeply, wondering if I would catch a hint of white death on the breeze. Maybe it was just my imagination but the damp earth and rusty metal I inhaled did smell almost sweet.
Now, the conditions in the factory weren’t very good, to put it mildly. The machinery was, by all accounts, antiquated; the hours were long, the heat intense and the pay only every slightly above a pittance. But the workers didn’t complain, at least not loudly of publicly. The sugar refinery was one of the few employers in town. Our luxuries have always come at the cost of someone else’s sweat and blood and the workers here were certainly better off than the slaves who worked the sugarcane plantations not so long ago in Brazil.
Even in the dark, I could see you roll your eyes. You wanted a ghost story, not a diatribe about workers’ rights.
The workers inhaled sugar day in and day out. Even after a shower, its scent clung to them like a psychotic mistress. They began to find reasons to turn down their wives peach cobblers and brown bettys. Soon their wives stopped offering. Maybe it was better for all concerned, healthier, but I can’t help thinking that such a strong aversion is unnatural.
Then one day, the whole factory went up in flames. They figure it was just dust, just dust in the overheated machinery, but that was all it took. The building was old and dry. The flames spread almost instantly. All those on the main floor perished. Those on the top floor fared better. Most managed to climb down the rickety fire escapes or jump to their safety before the fire engulfed the whole building.
The city smelled like syrup and burnt flesh for weeks. The owners tried to re-open a new factory just across the bridge but no one would work there. The smell of sugar made them sick. People wouldn’t even buy or eat sugar. Just a whiff of a pie baking in the oven was enough to make a grown man lose his dinner.
Last I heard, they re-opened the factory in some other Podunk town. I hear they’re doing ok, despite this new age of healthy living, but there’s many in this town who still won’t touch sugar.
Good thing it didn’t happen in a brewery, you said and laughed. I laughed too but we both knew there was nothing funny, that we were just hoping the sound would keep the shadows at bay.

Inside Out

You were always on the outside looking in
Until you turned around
And fell into the wild

Those inside heard tales of your adventure
And wished they could escape
Their glass cages

In Response

As you can see, I haven't written much in the way of short fiction recently. I've been very focused on my screenplay, editing it, re-writing it and even letting people read it (gulp). I'm actually really happy with where it is right now and with the amount of work I've managed to put into it, even when it started to feel less like play and more like work. In the process though I may have forgotten how much I like to create something more digestible (length-wise) and descriptive. A recently found friend encouraged me to dig out some of my old writing and in the process re-inspired me. Thanks Bluebird, or should I say Sid Heart. Anyway, the following vignette is the result.

Two Women Talking

It was hot and smelled of summer. Warm water on hot cement and chlorine. Zoe’s short hair was plastered to her head, tendrils dipped in sweat. She gesticulated wildly her muscles flexing beneath colourful tattoos.
“So basically” she was saying “the Bechdel test looks at female presence in movies. It asks you to think of a movie and see if it has more than two female characters who have names, if yes, do they talk to each other and finally, do they talk to each other about something other than men? It’s sad how many movies fail the test. Something is clearly wrong with the movie industry and with North American movie-goers too if we continue to be silent about the lack of female representation.”
I heard her. I knew she was right. But her words melted in the heat as my attention shifted to the hot shirtless guy locking up his bike.

I know, I haven't published anything in ages. I've been busy though, just working on some other projects, namely a script that I've been working on forever and a magazine article. Just thought I'd put up a story so you know I'm still out here working away.

Fall From Grace

The inside of the car was damp. The windows were fogged with breath and the steam that rose from passengers’ coats and hats. A child (or at least Sarah assumed it was a child though it could just as easily have been a playful adult) had drawn a smiley face in the fog on the centre window. The droplets of rain that shivered on the outside of the window made it look as if the smiley face was crying.
Sarah sighed and flicked a dripping strand from her forehead. She leaned against the clammy partition behind her.
-Do we have to again? We went last week.
Adam adjusted a strap on his backpack. Why does he always have to wear a backpack? He’s a grown man for God’s sake. Adam bit the skin around his cuticles, peeling back a hangnail.
-I guess not. But it’s a bit late now. They’re expecting us.
The PA system dinged and a mechanical voice that aimed to sound warm and inviting but only managed to sound vaguely psychotic announced the next stop. Sarah exhaled loudly and pulled her cold jeans away from her thighs. She wasn’t sure why she was so annoyed about going to Adam’s parents’. But she was.
The train lurched and came to a halt. The doors opened letting in a gust of cold air and a spattering of people shaking umbrellas and boots.
-I mean if you really don’t want to go, I could call them now.
-No, no. Don’t be ridiculous.
Sarah rolled her eyes. Adam curled his hand around hers.
-What’s wrong Sar?
-Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.
Sarah shook his hand loose like a damp leaf clinging to a jacket about to be put away in the closet.
-Why don’t we ever go to my parents’?
Adam licked his lips. The air in the car was heating up and smelled of wool and sweat.
-We can go. We can go any time. You just never…I didn’t think you wanted to.
Adam looked at her, his eagerness to please stamped on his brow. Sarah wanted to punch him or maybe just drip out of her own skin and melt into a puddle, run the length of the train and slip along its side, a colourful patch of waxy flesh.
-I don’t. You’re right. It would just be nice if you suggested it sometime.
Sarah’s frustration was a tenuous spider web between them. Adam prickled and brushed his face as if he could feel the web. Why am I always such a bitch?
-So, you don’t want to go to your parents but I’m still supposed to suggest it?
It was hotter now in the train and Sarah could feel sweat mingle with the rain.
-I’m irrational, I know. I’m sorry.
Adam leaned forward and gave her a scratchy chicken peck. His shaggy brown hair tickled her nose. She clenched her hands, fingernails making red imprints in her palm, resisting the urge to push him away.
-It’s ok.
His breath was warmer and staler than the air pumping out of the ankle high heaters.
-No, it’s not ok. I shouldn’t treat you like this. Why do you let me get away with it?
The train bumped and lurched. There was a rattle like a rollercoaster clacking against wooden tracks or an old man breathing him last phlegmy breath.
Sarah stumbled and ended up against the door. She looked at Adam, startled. He reached out his hand to her just as the doors flew open, released from whatever mechanics usually kept them closed. Sarah felt the web snap and she was falling, falling, falling away from the train and its tracks and Adam.