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/ 

Scratch an Inch: An Emerging Writer's Blog

An Emerging Writer's Blog: Free Fiction

Writings by Emerging Canadian Author Jennifer McAuley

It's just me and you, dear reader. This blog is an open door inviting you inside. Let's sit by the fire, be it a camp fire under a starry sky or a comforting glow at the hearth, and I will tell you everything. I am here, in my rustic cabin nestled among mountains, surrounded by wandering Elk, flanked by serpentine lakes. My windows look out like blinking eyes across a thin ribbon of valley where the weather blows through in spastic breaths: snow, fog, rain, sun. Depending on the season, there is the percussion of rain drops, the booming of thunder or the soft papery sound of the breeze through the Aspens. At least I think they are Aspens. . .I better brush up on my trees.

Who was it that said that if you want facts read nonfiction, if you want the truth, read fiction? I embrace that notion . . . If you are tired of reading the newspaper and need a moment away from those scientific journals then maybe this is the door you enter, this is the threshold you cross. There is no harm, no bodily risk, you can depart through the same door from which you entered whenever you please. 

So, welcome to my humble little blog about absolutely nothing and absolutely everything simultaneously. Where everything is fiction and everything is true. A writing blog but not a "how to write blog". Melt in the mouth bites of write. A "I'm looking for a story or a poem or a reader-reading a writer-writing moment" blog. No promises that my writing will be witty or beautiful or sensuous or wise. However, I will try! Definitely (and defiantly!) no promises that my grammar will be impeccable or my spelling pristine. Again, I'll do my best. I'll do my best to be entertaining, thoughtful, and (gulp) to write regularly.

Why is it called The Prickling Pen, you ask? Good question! I hoped you would ask that. I had a list of possible blog names but many were spoken for. No, I won't tell you them, they are tucked in my back pocket for a rainy day. After an informal text-poll and a process of elimination I settled on The Prickling Pen. Here is  my line of reasoning.

For a traveler it's itchy feet

For an artist it's a restless brush

For a reader it's an open book

For a writer it's a prickling pen

I admit it, I'm scratching an itch. I hope it feels as good for you as it does for me.