A Thin Line

I've spent most of this crazy year in semi-isolation, head down, working on my novel. I literally have not written even one, teeny-weeny short story. Sure, maybe I've dabbled, but my focus has been pretty singular. So, it was nice to see my short story, A Thin Line, published and out there in the world for people to read. 

In this story, I wanted to explore the push-pull heart-wrench of a lost familial relationship. Like they say, the opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. And when we've loved someone or something, it seems impossible to be indifferent. No matter how wrought the relationship, no matter how many years pass, there's something that still binds us together.

Below is a excerpt from A Thin Line, but if you want to read the whole thing, hurry over to CAROUSEL Literary Magazine, Issue 44, it should be up a while longer. By the way, CAROUSEL is "hybrid literature for mutant readers."  What a great tag line!

True Confession: I don't usually post works in their entirety because then I may not be eligible to have them published by a magazine or publisher. So, this is your chance to read the whole story.

A Thin Line

It’s her. Even from this distance — through the reflecting glass of the café’s windows, across the busy street, through the throng of pedestrians and people waiting for their morning buses — I recognize her.

I stare hard, wanting confirmation even though I don't need any. I'd know her anywhere.

Truth is, I haven't thought about her in ages. I try not to think about her in general. Live in the moment like a Buddhist monk. Hi-yaa! In this moment, my toes are soaking. Freezing too because I spent forever slopping through the slushy rain to be here for the morning shift, needing some coin, so I can buy what Laz and I like to call, “a fisherman's breakfast”. Whatever we can catch.

Jesus. It is her.

Her hair’s a little grayer, probably thanks to me. Ha!

I shake my cup and work the morning rush, real gracious and trying to hit that perfect note between dignified and pitiful. Working the crowd, trying not to look her way. The whoosh of the train overhead wipes out the sound. It’s hard to ask for money when no one can hear you, so I stop for a beat, glancing over.

She's still there.

My mind is so clear it's painful. I notice everything. My freezing toes, going numb in my boots. My tingling head, itchy under my hat. My humming body, twitchy, coming down from last night. Usually, I have a little something in the morning to take the edge off. If I had been able to start the day right, I bet I wouldn't have even noticed her. My eyes tripped on her before my mind registered what was happening. There was some magical, crazy-ass pattern of movements and poses, strung up like laundry flapping on a line, together in familial sequence.

Even now, as I watch her, everything she does feels ridiculously familiar. Her brow scrunched in concentration, a pencil (chewed, I bet) tucked behind her ear; dainty hands lifting a cup (not paper, no drink and walk); the simultaneous shrug of rounded shoulders and the satisfied frown after she sips. Muscle memory? No, that's not right. Organ memory? Are eyes an organ?

Even through all the static I picked her out of the crowd. Even though I wasn't looking. It's like I heard her beating heart. Cue the jaws music. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump.

Want more? Here's the link: http://carouselmagazine.ca/issue44/ 

Re-wilding, an excerpt from my current work in progress

 Holly wiped her brow. Her stomach was rolling seawater, her mouth a desert. The truck rumbled over the rough road. Her back ached from the strain of too many hours spent sitting. She had never driven so far, for so many hours. She placed a palm on her stomach, a wizard performing a spell, her imaginary baby-bump a crystal ball. The sickness remained, but the weight of her own hand grounded her, kept her from floating out the window, over the endless bush and forest, back to the relative comfort and convenience of the city. Maybe her sister Cedar was right. Half-right, anyway. Traveling in her condition was madness.

⇼⇼

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Cedar had said, the night Holly had announced their departure. Kenneth had been in the kitchen, basting a chicken. Cedar and Holly were sitting on the sagging couch in the living room. The whole apartment smelled of roasting chicken and herbs; a smell that Holly usually loved but was making her slightly queasy. Outside the apartment windows, the senso-lights had flickered on one by one, warming the darkening city. Projected advertisements danced on distant walls.

“Heaven knows it isn’t perfect here, but we have what you need, a hospital, doctors—” Her sister’s cheeks bloomed pink, her mouth contorted into a frown. “You won’t have that there.”

“Ken is a doctor,” Holly had argued feebly, detesting how fragile her voice sounded.

“What about the bandits, Northerners? There are no peacekeepers up there.” Outside an alarm wailed, an angry shout echoed against the buildings.

“Ken’s been to camps before. It’s safe, safer than here really. Cedar, it’s beautiful. You can dip a net in a lake and the fish jump right into it. It’s clean. At night, you can see stars. It’s better, better than here. Can’t you see? That’s why we’re going.” Her hand floated to her belly.

Cedar wasn’t listening. 

“If anything goes wrong out there—” She shook her head. “And I’m here. To help. There, you’ll be in the middle of nowhere, with no family. It’s insane. It’s still a dangerous place. You don’t know anyone; you have no experience living in the wild.”

Holly shook her head. “I’ll learn.” Her voice deflated as she continued. “Can’t you try to be happy for us?”

“I’m too worried to be happy for you. What if you—after—what if you’re—like last time?” Cedar shook her head again. Her skin was pale, like Holly’s, splashed with cinnamon freckles. On her cheek there was a Bloomers mark, a star burst of raised skin. Her curly red hair had been scooped up in a bun. Her blue eyes had looked moist. “And you’ll stick out there, more so than here even.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“What about me, then? Huh? You’re my only family too.”

Holly bent her neck, studying her hands. “I’m sorry.” What else could she say? It was true. Family was important, she was lucky to have a sister, lucky to have Cedar.

“You’ve always been a follower, sis. A romantic. I know you love Ken and he’s convinced you—”

“He didn’t convince me,” Holly countered. She felt her throat constrict. She hated this. “Look, I don’t want to fight.” Now that she was upset it was impossible for her to articulate. How could she explain anyway? How could she explain how much she wanted a child, how much she feared that another flu or fever would sweep through the city and kill them? Or that the chemicals and pollution would affect the pin-sized fetus that she was carrying? That another conflict with the Americans or Albertans might grip the city, the way it had when she was a child? How could she explain that she loathed the city, that she wanted more, and that she simply couldn’t endure another disappointment? No, she could not have this baby in the city.

“You’re running.” Cedar shifted away from Holly. She eyed the glass of water Kenneth had placed on the coffee table, then lifted her head, staring out the window, into the shadowy street.

“Are you thirsty?”

Cedar shrugged. Holly carried the glass to the kitchen, poured the water out, refilled it from the tap. Kenneth raised his gaze from the cutting board and mouthed “Okay?”

Holly shook her head, no. She returned to the  living room, held the glass out to her sister. Cedar took the glass and sipped. Her eyes were fluorescent against their red rims.

“We’ve done our research, we’re not going in blind. I know it’ll be hard, ” Holly mumbled. “ But it’s an opportunity. An adventure.”

Cedar let out a grunt and folded her arms across her chest. “You sound like a Bloomer. You sound like Mom.” It was the ultimate insult. Holly placed an arm across her belly and sighed. Cedar always got the last word.

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to argue. Holly was going. She was gone. And Cedar would just have to forgive her.