Pirates, Part 1 (excerpt)

This is an except from "Pirates." This is a story that is told from four separate character perspectives: A former flamenco dancer named Althea; her teacher-husband Tim; teenager, selfie-taking Turner; and, beat-boxing Diego.  Oh, and of course there might be Pirates.

Tim Morgan

The Medusa Virus, that’s what he had nicknamed it. Tim would never say that out loud, though. Especially not to Althea. Joking was no longer allowed. The words she threw at him. Chop, chop. Sharp like a cutlass. She threw objects at him too: old records like throwing stars, once a potted plant.

Tim scrubbed half-dried egg yolk off the garage door before she found it. He tossed the burning bag of dog crap sitting by the front door, grateful she had slept through the doorbell. Now he sat in his SUV, stalling before heading home from his job, back to the real work of handling Althea.

Those kids she blamed, they weren’t bad, he had taught almost every one of them at one point or another. She spent so many hours now, sitting at the window, watching them walk to school. It was her opera seria, the neighbourhood in three acts. The school kids were an easy target for her ire. Everyday they migrated, like the Great Blue Heron that flew over the neighbourhood, east to west in the morning then back again at dusk.

There was Diego, so dark he’d disappear at night, tiny like his mom, singing all the time. Sweet kid. Althea hated his headphones. Adam, hair like the straw at the end of broom. A twit, no question. But a rifle? Althea said she saw it sticking out of his backpack. When Tim saw him slouch up the sidewalk he said, “watch it, young man,” just in case. Loyalty, it mattered. Althea was the love of his life.

Young man. His father used to call him that. As in, you, young man, are in trouble. Tim let out a weasily giggle and glanced at the brown, bottle shaped bag he had flung on the passenger seat.  He caught his own eyes in the rear view. He needed to shave. His face was red, raw looking, as if he had a sun burn or had bathed in brine. Sand was crusted in the corners of his eyes.

When he really was a young man, his parents drove into the city through the east side. The bums stumbled and swayed and sat in circles at Pigeon Park, swilling from brown paper bags. It was right there, this foreign land, just around the corner from the scrubbed tourists. All it took was a wrong turn, an innocent semi circle. Imagine the horror, one minute they’re watching the steam clock blow and the next they’re tripping over drunks, passed out in guano-splattered sleeping bags. Trying not to make eye contact with the panhandlers, eyes empty like craters on the moon. He said: “Bottles in the bags? Do they think they’re fooling anyone?”

He picked up the bottle and untwisted the cap, poured the amber liquid into his stainless travel mug. He stuffed the bottle back into the wrinkled bag then pushed it under the passenger seat. In the mirror he saw an old man.

Walking the Beach

This is a little story inspired by a writing prompt I did with my writing group. It is a fun slice of fictional narrative that is a bit meta - a writer writing about a writer and writing. Enjoy!

    It’s cold out, the wind whipping the ocean into a frenzy. Still, Daisy needs walking and I best do it before the sun slips down the horizon and the daylight is gone. I shove my feet into my rubber boots, feeling like a failure. I shrug into my jacket and we’re off, my dog full of the enthusiasm I lack. I was supposed to be writing today. Spinning my imagination into gold.

     I sat at my desk for nearly an hour, staring out at the choppy grey waves waiting for inspiration. I folded laundry. Wrote two hundred words, deleted them, started again. I swept the floor. Wrote fifty more. Deleted. I sat on the third to bottom step and counted my losses: my father, my best friend, my favorite sweater, a five-dollar bill, my sense of humor.

     I’m not sure where it has gone -- the idea I worked out last night when I was supposed to be sleeping. Something about a one-legged clown falling in love with a totem-pole carver. The one-legged clown wiping off his make up. The carver glistening, wood chips collecting in her long black hair.

    It was good, really. Brilliant even. The setting evocative: a Ferris wheel being built, a dust storm in the desert, the taste of salt in the air.

     On the beach, the dog bounds ahead, crashing into the waves and then jumping back again as if the novelty of the ocean surprises her. Ecstasy. Ah, to be a dog. The wind is biting and I’m waking up from my fugue state, my word-rich coma. My clown. I’ll name him Circuit. He will fry eggs with his electric fingers.

     I find a suitable stick and throw it for Daisy. She bounds after it, into the crashing surf. Happier than a moment ago, if possible. We play this back and forth game until finally she loses interest. We continue along the beach. She starts digging. At first, I don’t notice because I’m naming the totem-carver. Aleka . . . it means “she who makes the wood speak.”

     I’ve kept walking and Daisy’s not catching up. She’s nosing something frantically. Paws working the sand, inhaling in greedy breaths. I make my way to her and kneel. Something metal, rusty. I brush away the sand. It’s a box, metal, with blooms of rust decorating the top, the corners are sharp. There is a looped clasp, no lock.

     I unclasp the latch. Inside there’s a book. Perfectly preserved as though that rusty box is waterproof. On the cover there is clown in white face. The title of the book is titled “Circuit.” I turn the book over. A tragic love story between a one-legged clown and a totem pole carver, set in the desert during a sand-storm.

    Daisy and I walk on, toward the middle distance, where I see them erecting a Ferris wheel on the board walk, the taste of salt in the air.