Dedication

(3rd place in my group, 2nd round NYC 250-word fiction challenge, March 2023)

Waiting for the water to boil.

She likes mint leaves mangled, steeped five minutes, three drops of honey, a squeeze of lime. She calls it her “hot mojito.”

I drop a regular King Cole bag in my mug. I was never a tea person before the pandemic, but now I crave tea’s soothing warmth, the bland milky comfort of it. 

The afternoon sun outlines her profile, the curve of her throat. She stares at her laptop, lost in sentence creation, searching for the right words to draw out the awkward laugh, the tears. I put the tea in its place, on the coaster just northeast of her mousepad. 

Inspiration cracks through, and she types soft staccatos. Then she lifts the mug, blows across it, lips like a kiss. My stomach twists. “Heavenly. Thank you, Helen.”

Six months of torture. Would it be worse to never see her? I have wrestled with this.

“The book is finished. So I won’t need you anymore.”

When she isn’t writing, she doesn’t need a tea maker or assistant. I blink. My throat closes.

Her warm hand pulls me around so I am draped over her shoulder. She breathes mint and points at the screen. 

“Read the dedication,” she says and as I do, she pulls my arms tight around her and rests her head on my shoulder.  

“To she who should know better than to get involved with a writer,” it says.

“She does know better,” I murmur, hiding my joy in her neck. 

Glimpsing mom

Nightstand: a Bible,

A cherished hand-written card,

A spare lighter to inhale
the first smoke of the day
face the slop-eyed sweaty man, slurring, stumbling

Tucked behind the Bible, 
The Happy Hooker. Dog eared. 

Inside, a girl smirks at her GI in black and white, one breast bared.  

Testing Time

 Written for Globe Soup. Prompt: Location - tachinomiya

Testing Time

Teleportation is hard. It requires you to send your mind ahead, and then pull your body through along the thin connecting thread of your lingering consciousness. You need to plan your place of arrival (not inside something, or in front of a speeding train, for example) and you need to rely on your body’s desire to remain intact as a unit. It has to do with particle physics and the action of the fermions, ideally while you distract the Pauli exclusion principle with a foot massage and maybe a generous gin and tonic. 

Make it teleportation with time travel, and suddenly you have to bribe a whole other set of natural laws. Add in being drunk, and it’s getting into near impossible level. For one thing, your body’s cohesiveness is not a given. Jim Kunyato arrived at the tiki bar, which was only our second stop, missing the fingertips of his left hand and an exasperated Professor Glauto had to put him back together before sternly sending him home with a D. I don’t think Jim had ever had alcohol before tonight.

You might think a pub crawl is a pretty cool idea for a final exam. That is, you might think this if and only if you have never taken Advanced Teleportation with Professor Glauto. You only get an A+ if you make it to the final stop, which is an obscure underground club in Germany. In the 25 year history of the course, only two students have done it, and one is now the Dean.

Ten years ago, Glauto lost five students into a whirlpool in the Pacific because they overshot the fourth stop. Insurance agents appeared at the school and muttered darkly about risk rate increases. Since then, Glauto has allowed students to work in partners. 

We are at the B- level now, my partner Reika and I, still standing, carefully sipping our Guinness in the Dublin pub and planning our leap to the next stop, in Tokyo. If we manage it, we will be in an early 80s tachinomiya in Tokyo. 

“Bottoms up, everyone!” hollers Glautto, and then he blows the whistle. We are standing next to two unwary Trinity students who benefit from our inability to chug. We dump our drinks into theirs and then teleport within five minutes. I check Reika’s figures, for no good reason. She’s twice the math witch I am – literally, since her fox familiar is a computational whiz. 

We clasp hands and focus, build the spot to land in our consciousnesses, and then send our minds there. So far so good. We start pulling our bodies along. Reika mutters, as she realises that in the blink her consciousness has been gone, one of the students has planted his hand on her breast. Reika’s fox sinks her teeth into the frat boy’s ankle before she makes her way to us, following Reika’s trail. As our eyes snap open, the salarymen around us make space without really looking. 

Professor Glauto  thrusts drinks into our hands as soon as we are substantial. Two young businessmen move aside and gesture an invitation for us to join their table, their skinny ties askew and their eyebrows waggling. 

“Tetsuo Imazawa,” says the first one, pointing at himself. And then, “Hidehiro Fujiwara,” pointing at his companion. Between them is a paper bearing rough sketches. 

Reika introduces herself and says, “Gretchen,” pointing to me. I incline my head. Fujiwara-san asks where we are from. When Reika leans in and whispers “the FUTURE!”  I realise my partner is hammered. 

Imazawa-san apparently understands English because he stares at Reika, agape. Her blue fox has slunk up and around her neck and now looks like a scarf. They chat a few minutes in animated Japanese. I wish I had fared better in Modern Translation. At the next table I see a distracted suited man making notes in code, as in computer code. Assembly to be exact. At least that is a language I recognize. This tachinomiya must be near some video game offices. 

Suddenly, Imazawa starts scribbling wildly with the pencil, looking up at Reika as if for reference. I look across the table and recognize he is drawing her. He is chattering to Fujiwara much too quickly for me to pick up what he is saying but he keeps repeating what sounds like “he-CAN”. 

Reika giggles into her hand and tosses back her drink. The whistle blows and I scramble to get the coordinates established for the St. Petersburg vodka bar that is next. As we start to vanish, the fox mutters to Reika, “Time Gal? Really? You couldn’t resist?”

Reika shrugs. “I always wanted to be in a video game!”

Eurotrash disco decor greets us and we toast our minimum B+ grade.

Cultural Inappropriation

Written to the prompt "Scotch / Scottish / Scotland"

One thing about white privilege that no one talked about, thought Midge, was the way you felt rootless. What was her culture? Greek and Roman culture? Elementary school mythology, history full of galloping white saviours? More like mayonnaise, Sesame Street, boiled peas, Tommy Hunter.

Her parents had been children in the Great Depression and so she saved twist ties, elastics and pop tabs compulsively. But she herself was Gen X, apparently, a late surprise to her mother who had expected menopause. Was her culture set in time? Memories of disco, the Berlin Wall falling, Curt Cobain dying?

Or maybe her legacy was family lore: a baked bean recipe, a few funny catch phrases, an internal belief that her family were storytellers, despite none of them being writers except her one cousin that wrote romance novels. (Which hardly counts, Midge thought uncharitably as she filed another half-novel into the graveyard of writing in her Google Drive.)

None of this compared to the rich culture of her friend Darren, whose Mi’kmaq family had invited her to a Powwow. She had been enchanted with the jingle skirts, awed by the smudging, and irrationally jealous of the mantle of separateness, difference that they wore.

 
She knew that this was in spite of it all; that this culture had persisted like rhizomes, had grown like a callous in reaction to the horrible actions of white people who had come before her. Kidnapping children, ripping them from their homes and telling them they were subhuman; starlight tours, a ghastly tradition of dumping vulnerable men into a frozen landscape to die; thousands of women and children just gone. Murder, cruelty, genocide.

 
Was that the whole of her heritage? Terror, horror, blood, conquest? Better to be rootless.

 
Still, she was curious, so she spit into the vial, mailed it off, crossed her fingers that she wasn’t selling her genetic information to a Marvel supervillain.

Two months later, when she wasn’t expecting it, the results arrived. 53% Scotland/Ireland, she read with wonder. She’d always been told her last name was from French, so this was curious. 35% UK. 7% Finland. 5% southern Europe.

 
Mayonnaise indeed. It didn’t get whiter. Of course, her own fishbelly-pale arms told her this tale, but now it was backed by science. Still… Scotland/Ireland eh?

 
A month later the system was ‘refined’ according to the website. 52% Scottish. 22% Irish. 14% UK.
She impulsively logged onto Amazon and bought a plaid skirt.

 
The next day, she set out on a quest for haggis but even the European grocer told her to wait for Robbie Burns day. January 25 was a bit of a wait. A few days later Midge, enjoying the late autumn warmth in her new skirt, took a new tack. She headed to the liquor store.

SCOTCH! Of course. Scotch whisky?, the pert missus at the liquor store asked.

 
That’s right, lassie, muttered Midge. What kind though?

 
She was aghast at the prices. She’d thought the Scots were supposed to be frugal! Also, she was pretty sure she could not pronounce most of these… Laphroaig? Aberfeldy? Glenfiddich? Cutty Sark seemed easy enough, but would she look like a non-Scot chump buying the cheapest one? And wait, didn’t cutty sark mean lice shirt? (She was pretty sure this was a fact, having gleaned it from an L.M. Montgomery story. Montgomery, after all, was as Scottish a name as they came.)

She settled on Bowmore, which seemed pronounceable and still within a reasonable price (whatever reasonable was).

 
Arriving home, she pulled out what her research told her was the right sort of glass for enjoying one’s Scotch whisky.

She had asked someone on Twitter about mix, but was told curtly that one does not mix proper whisky, so there you go. She dumped in about an inch and then remembered a mystery novel mentioning “two fingers”...she stacked her fingers and eyeballed the glass, then added a bit more. She had no ice, but that was fine, from what she had read.

She picked up the glass and saluted herself, letting the light from her window filter through the amber liquid. “Here’s ta knowin’ yer people!” She didn’t quite feel up to attempting a Gaelic toast yet.

 
She tipped the glass back and swallowed a mouthful. In her mouth was a warm, grainy, cardboard taste and in her throat was a hot fire. She coughed for a minute, and managed to croak “smoooth” like a character in a 1980s sitcom.

 
Maybe it tasted better when you were an embittered cop. Or when you were eating haggis. 

Maybe a deep fried Mars bar would be better.

 
Sighing, eyeballing the full bottle, she sipped another bit out of her glass. It was an investment in her past. She’d learn to like it.

 
Her doorbell rang. Darren stood outside with a bag of Taco Bell.

 
“Hey!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you!”

 
“I had a buy one get one burrito coupon,” he replied. “I thought I’d see if you want one.” He glanced at the whisky bottle.

 
“Drinking alone?” his eyebrows shot up.

 
“Turns out my people are Scottish,” Midge replied airily. “I’m having Scotch.”

“Well, there’s no oatmeal in this burrito,” Darren replied.

 
She pulled the bag over. “I love bean burritos so much. Why can’t I be Mexican? Hey, do you want a drink of this stuff? I don’t think I really like it.”

Darren looked at her soberly. “Are you offering me firewater?”

Her face blanched.

“Nah, I’m just shitting you. I bet the third glass will taste better than the first!” He topped up her glass and poured some in a juice glass he pulled from her cupboard. “Here’s to multiethnic meals!”
Midge clinked with him. “I’ll drink to that!”

comes in like the fog

Tears spill over my cheeks as I stare at the putty-coloured walls. My home, my family, all gone in the fire. My skin will heal, but now I live here, in this dreadful place.

I see something move out of the corner of my eye and hold my breath. They say there’s a cat lives here, but the only people who see it are those about to die. 

An orderly appears and chides me. “Sheila, crying won’t help anyone. Why don’t you go play bingo?”

“Is Alice going to play?”

I peer across the room to see if my roommate’s eyes are open. She’s slept a lot lately. 

“I’ll get your cane.” The orderly leaves. 

Alice’s hand gestures in the air.

“What’re you doing?” I sound shrewish. It happens when you’re old. You lose the nuance of tone. 

Alice murmurs, “Kitty kitty.”

When the orderly returns, I gesture with my chin. “Thinks she sees a cat.”

The orderly’s eyes widen. She turns and stares a moment at Alice whose eyes have closed again. Her lips look blue.

She dashes to the door and yells at the desk, “Get the cart! Call Alice’s family.”

A nurse brings in a cart and the orderly gets me up. 

“Let’s get you to bingo while Joe helps Alice.”

It smells like disinfectant and peas in the hall. As I lean on the rail to walk down the stairs, I hear a purr.

A small grey tabby sits on the step.

I smile. “Kitty.”

------

Microfiction created for an NYC Midnight challenge

Cuthbert's Cafe

Written in response to an NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge, 2021.

In 1963 Halifax, cafe owner Kerry Cuthbert bears witness to the effects of urban renewal in her neighborhood and worries about her business. Meanwhile, her new young cook, Milton has dreams of challenging his social strata.

*****

“Milton!” 

Kerry’s sharp eye caught one of her good cornflower blue soup bowls going out the door in the brown hand of her baker. Through the front window she spied a wagging tail. Was that boy feeding the mangy stray dog out of one of her good soup bowls?

Kerry came out from behind the counter, and pulled on Milton’s shoulder. He was kneeling, letting the dog lap water from the bowl. 

“I’m sorry, missus, he was thirsty. He got abandoned when his people moved. Besides, this bowl was chipped, see?”

Sure enough, there was a large chip out of the rim. Kerry sighed. “How’d it get chipped, Milton? Those bowls aren’t cheap! You got to take care washing them.” 

“It was chipped when it came to the kitchen!” he protested. 

She looked out the door, past him, rubbing her forehead. It was early, the sun barely up and the far side of Gottingen was still mostly in shadow. The recently opened library nearby showed a few lights. Time was, this part of the street would have been a little more lively by now. Storekeepers stopping in for a coffee and chat on their way to work. Some of the office girls indulging in a doughnut. 

Milton headed back into the kitchen, his slim body pulling in on itself as he  passed her. The stray dog snuffled and slunk away up the road. 

She gazed after the mongrel, at the jutting empty space up the street. Maisie’s house had been one of the last to come down, and now her friend lived all the way out in Rockingham. They’d barely finished clearing the debris. City Hall said this was part of a bold plan to modernize Halifax. “Public good.” She harboured quiet doubts. 

“Hello, Kerry!” Edna was waving as she ran across the street from the library. “Can I get a quick cup of tea?” Edna had been ducking over daily for a ‘quick cup of tea’ for the last two weeks. Kerry suspected she was checking on her protege. 

Sure enough, she peeked behind Kerry, and whispered, “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine, a real help. Thank you again, for recommending him. Mind you, he was giving the old stray dog water out of one of my good bowls, but he’s doing well otherwise. He’s got some fine hustle, Had the place swept and mopped before I got here this morning.”

“Oh, I’m so glad! I know that boy’s going to go places someday, you watch. He told me when he read about Dr. King’s speech last week, how it made his heart glow to hear parts of it. Said he has a dream too. Asked if I thought he could be an alderman someday. Imagine!”

“Well, I guess that’s something. Might be worth a chipped bowl, even.” 

“Morning, Miss Cuthbert,” a fellow in a hardhat called out as he and another man strolled in and slid into a booth. The work crews were a rough lot, but they were keeping her going. She passed them a menu. “I would love a fried egg sandwich with some ham on it, ma’am. And a good, strong cup of coffee.”

The other man piped up, “Just coffee and a doughnut for me, please.” 

She called the order back to Milton, and he remembered to check white or brown bread. He was cheaper than her last cook had been, for sure, and maybe smarter too. 

She brought the workers their coffee and a small jug of cream. 

As she rounded the end of the counter, Milton was preparing a fresh pot of coffee and chatting with Edna. Edna slid him a newspaper. 

“Milton, you’re my kitchen help, you shouldn’t be out here.” Kerry glanced back at the two customers. 

“Sorry, ma’am, I just wanted to help.” The young boy was bashful. He took the newspaper back into the kitchen. Edna looked at her, worry creasing her brow. 

“You haven’t gotten any … comments on having Miton here, have you?” Her eyes slid toward the workers. 

Kerry briskly shook her head, “No, no, there’s been none of that.”

Grabbing a small plate holding a fresh doughnut, she collected the sandwich offered by Milton, and dropped these at the men’s booth. She topped up their coffee, noting, “Fine weather for working, still, I guess.” 

“Sure is, ma’am. I expect it’s going to be noisy hereabouts for a while.” He sounded apologetic. 

“Dusty too, I imagine,” smiled Kerry. She headed back to the counter where Edna was calling out school-related questions to the kitchen window.

Milton passed her out a dozen fresh muffins, and she filled the display case, passing one to Edna, who picked off small bits and put them into her mouth, savouring each. 

“What a cook, am I right? I told you!” She closed her eyes and chewed.

Edna added, “Milton told me the word in Africville is that the city is intent on making his folks move. There’s rumours that’s what the housing those fellas are building is for.” 

One of the men had approached the counter to ask for some catsup. 

“Well, moving more folks back into the neighborhood would be a blessing, that’s for sure,” said Kerry. “Business could pick up a bit more.” She passed the glass bottle to the man.

“Thanks,” he nodded. “I don’t expect the folk moving in those places will be buying meals here. Not a nice respectable place like this.” He nodded.

Kerry saw Milton catch her eye through the window to the kitchen.

At 8:45 am, Milton called out that he was heading to school and would be back at lunchtime. She looked out the door to see the stray dog waiting for him. He pulled some crusts from his pocket, probably collected from a returned plate, and gave them to the mutt. The two marched up Gottingen Street, heads held high, as bulldozers roared to life nearby. The wind blew a few leaves loose. Fall was in the air.

#northend #africville #stephensonreport

This Tide Lifts Us All

It was early enough that the dust still glittered in the last rays of sunset through the windows. We picked out a good table, off to the side, sheltered by the bathroom wall. We could stash our stuff in the corner when the time came for dancing, and not worry that some buzzkill would steal our warm jackets. 

Danny was acting weird about his new pants because he thought they were blue-green and I'd made the mistake of calling them turquoise. I hoped that more people would arrive soon to distract him. So far there was only us and what looked like a table of out-of-towners sharing a pitcher. 

"This is like a goddamn library," Danny hissed. It was preternaturally quiet. When the DJ came bustling in smelling like snow and American cigarettes, it made us start. Soon, though, he had tossed on a Cake song and a few more groups had trickled in. 

Audra had insisted we be sure to get here early. She'd come to our apartment at 3 am on mushrooms, crooning about the golden triadic harmonics of the universe and the melting faces in my ficus and promising to be at the show early was the only thing that got her to leave. I wondered if she had slept at all. 

I was keen to see Delmore Leonard again. He was a well-known local musician and his first solo album had seen me through my last break up. I clung to the upbeat, happy music like a spar. I hadn't heard anything about the new album whose release was being celebrated tonight, except the occasional woo from Audra about all the meditation they had done in the studio recording it, and how hypnotic it was. 

The opening band were a trio of chirpy young women wearing bumble bee stripes and singing songs that poured from them like tea from antique pots, honey-sweet and smooth. The music even lightened Danny's mood and he waved over the server to order a Heineken. The server winked when he dropped the beer and waved away Danney's money, putting him in an even better mood. 

The Bee Girls didn't have really danceable melodies, so we remained at the table, swaying and people watching. When Audra dashed over and splashed down next to Danny, it was like someone had suddenly dropped bourbon in our tea... or maybe acid. 

"I am so glad you're here!!"

"You woke us up in the middle of the night to make sure we were coming." 

She began fiddling with Danny's hair, pushing it against the part. "You are going to be blown away. This album is...." she squeezed her eyes shut in wordless ecstasy. I was mesmerized by her large amber pendant swinging between her breasts. The Bee Girls continued to sugar the air. 

"I've got to go get ready. Come to the front! It will be wild. I promise."

As she zipped across the room to the stage door I helped Danny settle his hair.

"Audra's got the crazy eyes... think she's still shroomed up?" Danny asked.

"Nah, she's got too much energy for straight shrooms I'd say. She is definitely on something!"

The Bee Girls gathered their mandolins and tambourine and floated off the stage, and Delmore began setting up. A clean stage - three mikes, one for him, and one each for Audra and Joscelyn, the other singer. A percussion section. And that was it. Interesting. 

The servers were circulating with large trays of small glasses. Two of these glasses were dropped to us, with a wink for Danny again, who had by now forgotten all about his pants. 

"What's this?" I asked the server, but he was already gone.

Danny shrugged at me. "Communion?" 

We sniffed the glasses. I had once had mead at a D & D festival. It kind of smelled like that. Well, the server had brought it, so it probably wasn't roofied. Everyone else was drinking theirs as we looked around so we toasted and sipped some.

Delmore came to his microphone. "Hey everyone! Enjoy a sweet taste of sunshine, on us!" Everyone held their glasses aloft and we all finished them off. 

"Guess their record company advance is huge," Danny murmured.

We stashed our stuff in the corner and took our spot in front of the stage between Delmore and Audra as the band took their places. 

Ash was doing percussion with them, a surprise. He caught my eye and smiled, which made me smile. I hadn't seen him in a few weeks and the last time... the memory of his warm breath on my neck caught me by surprise and I felt my pulse all over my body.  

Then the music started. Audra and Joscelyn, both with their long blonde hair flowing down, stood, arms out and began a breathy harmonizing. Delmore, his dark goatee startling under his high cheekbones, joined in with the sounds they were making and then began singing. I realized he was looping the harmonies, so they layered and built. 

One time my friend Heather and I had been body surfing at Lawrencetown Beach, and suddenly the tide had surged deep under us and dragged us both by the feet out toward the open ocean. It took long moments of hard struggle to bring us back to land, and all the while, the ocean pulled and pulled. 

The sound was like that. My conscious mind found its footing gone. I was being pulled into an ocean of mutual awareness, and I wasn't strong enough to stand against the tide. As the music swelled, the lights seemed to change, and move. I was looking at the server behind the bar, who winked at me. I was looking at Joscelyn, somehow from right in front of her, and then I was looking at myself from stage. I was caught in a looping spiral that sent my awareness from person to person in the place. I was in love with a blonde man behind me, and then I was thinking about my sick grandmother; I was zoning on how cool my hand felt entwined with Sarah's, then feeling Mohinder's strong chest behind me, then aware of all of this at once, and looking at the crowd through Delmore's eyes, feeling my breath forming this mystical chord with the other singers. 

What was in that drink?

The sensation merged into oneness, and for almost a full minute, I was everyone and everyone was me and we were one, and breathing in unison, inhaling joy and sending love into the universe. And then the harmonies ebbed and I found myself retreating, reaching out still for the connection, but then alone, bewildered, in my own head. I was drenched. I clutched Danny's hand, and the hand of the man on my right. None of us let go. In the moment of silence following the song, Audra and Joscelyn clutched their matching pendants, moved to join arms with Delmore. Then Delmore said, 

"This harmonic joining is new, and this is how we can move forward together. My friends, my loves, my others... this is how we were meant to live."

I couldn't imagine anything more comforting than his voice.

"We will dance this evening, and join again before we part. But now that you know this is how it can be, I'm asking you to join with us. Follow us. Let us move across this earth and spread this joy."

Then he started playing another song, and I started dancing. Everyone was dancing, even the servers. Even the bouncers. A small part of my brain thought, the drink will wear off and this will be the best dream-high you have ever had, so be sure to remember it. Another part of my brain thought, you are forever changed. 

After two hours of dancing, hugging strangers, sharing water and just vibing at a continuously joyous level, the band moved into the layered harmonics again, and again, we shared each others' consciousness. This time, I could recognize more of the darker parts of people's minds. The depression, the self-doubt, the anger, that lay under the open, loving area we shared. As we joined, each of us began weaving healing, or maybe planting seeds is the right metaphor. We worked to pull these darker thoughts up, into conscious balance. It is a weird thing to explain in words. We knew that the harmonics worked by mixing different notes, and it was like that, in psychological terms - the more we pulled the dark parts in and blended them as well, the deeper and richer the joining.

As the last notes ended, we all instinctively came together into a huddle in the middle of the dance floor, touching as many others as we could. When Delmore invited us to join him on the buses he had waiting outside no one hesitated. 

This convoy will now spread out. Each of us will learn to brew the opening mead. Those of us who can sing will learn the joyous harmonics. Some of us will make clothes, some of us will make food. Some of us will drive. I have been charged with finding more amber crystals. We each have a role to play in bringing this world home. When we get to your town, be sure to get to the show early. 

This tide lifts us all. 

Gold, Jerry!

So, my microfiction "Devil's Tools" place 9th in my group, meaning I moved on in the NYC Midnight Microfiction contest! YAY! This is the follow up. My assigned genre was comedy, action was buying lottery tickets, and word was "copy". 

***

Ad copywriters spend our lives chained in the Word Mines, digging for gold. 

That nugget for our latest idiot client, a lottery? 

"Something VIRAL!" Fool’s gold.

Jerry and I hunkered down in a sweaty bodega, bought a mittful of scratch tickets, and started panning for inspiration.

“Scratch Bazingas!…” tried Jerry. 

“You buying more?” asked the hopeful clerk.

“Scratchmania!” 

Jerry muttered,  “It’s better than working.” 

“... not bad!”

Three anvil icons appeared under my thumbnail. A million dollars? 

“HOLY SHIT!”

“No profanity,” sighed Jerry. 

I hugged him, kissed the clerk. “SEE YA SUCKERS!” 

I hightailed out. 

Jerry lit up: “That’s it!”

Unceded

Offered with humility to people whose suffering I can't begin to comprehend, whose history I am only just learning, whose ancestors mine harmed and benefited from the harming of.

****

Unceded But seeded  With colonizer men building brick homes Raping the land Rapeseed, precious naming Blocking, trapping, Wrapping the First Peoples in swaths of settlement

Unceded 

But seeded 

With Bibles flung into the wild,

Relentlessly paced, chased, erased

(Rendered unchaste by word or deed)

Mother Earth needs become Mother Mary

Jesus Glooscap

Trickster Lucifer

Unceded

But seeded 

With others brought from other lands,

Brought in chains, bonds, ties and obligations,

Come from the South, free but

Cast out. Neglected, detested,  

Rewarded for loyalty 

With mud and rocks,

Sticks and stones.

Unceded 

But seeded

With “moral” men molding minds

with whips, women withholding water and food,

Cutting hair, cutting off ties,

Cutting out words

Bleaching souls and 

Bending knees

And burying mistakes.

Unceded

But seeded 

With generations of hate, 

Denial, violence and defiling,

Women missing, children dead

Shrugs and crosses, 

Shaking heads

Praying hands

Preying beds.

Unceded,

But seeded. 

Unseen now seen.

Alienation turned to

 Reconciliation?

Reedsy Submissions: Four Lights and Rave On

Check out my most recent stories at Reedsy:

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/charlene-boyce/

Rave On is my favourite thing I have written thus far. 

I had submitted Four Lights, but I chose to remove it to edit a part I was not comfortable with. 

Four Lights is pasted below. 

****

Four Lights

Genevieve wondered how long it was before the people of Egypt felt okay having parties after all the firstborns died.

Now that the pandemic had receded sufficiently to allow gatherings of more than 10 people, a party was called for. Or so Iris said, and Iris had a way of making her ideas contagious. This time her idea was to make up for three Halloweens lost to the pandemic in the form of an Ostara gathering.

"No Ouija board. Crystal ball sure, but I draw the line at Ouija!" 

Iris rolled her eyes. She stashed the board under the tv cabinet and began dumping chips and party mix into various fancy serving bowls she had produced from the attic. 

"Did you dust those?"

"GEN - A - VIVE!" Iris punched her name out in staccato syllables. "I swear, you think I'm a plebe." Which was a very Iris response in that it didn't at all answer the question.

Genevieve was arranging her devilled eggs when the doorbell began. People arrived alone or in pairs. They crept in, trying to be inconspicuous. The effects of the long-time gathering limits and the culture of neighborhood-tattletale enforcers were fresh scars.

Mid-century lounge music swayed through the air.... was that Sammy Davis Jr? It seemed a bizarre contrast to the skulls-and-spiders decor Iris had chosen. Genevieve sighed. No matter how many times she explained Ostara was about balance, fertility and rebirth, Iris clung to this childhood image of witches. Surreptitiously tucking blooming flowers around the skulls and over the spiders, Genevieve made her way from the dining room to welcome the guests. 

Everyone had arrived. Thirteen people and one baby in one room felt uncomfortably crowded. Genevieve had to propel herself forward to embrace her guests, remind herself that it was okay now. Hattie and Han were unusually quiet. Tessa had ridden in with Belle and Zoe and complained vociferously about Zoe's inability to focus on the road. Terry was still sawdusty, hammer slung from his pants. Varain and Syl were in full dashiki splendor. Andrescu looked so tiny in his suit and tie, hunched over his snake-carved cane.  Lola and Jim bounced little Feria, their pandemic baby, the first in the coven. 

Iris jumped up, eyes sparkling. "Let's light the candles and prepare the space!" 

Genevieve caught Tessa's eyes rolling and repressed a smile. Iris was new to the craft and so bloody eager. Everyone was looking forward to a simple catch up visit... Iris wanted pomp, and circumstance, and action.

"Let's let folks catch their breath first, hm?"

Genevieve set Iris to getting cocktails while she prepared tea for Andrescu, Lola and Tessa. Conversations started rippling across the room, nearly always prefaced with, "I feel like I haven't done anything worth talking about..." 

Pent-up emotions spilled out. The pandemic had marked each. Belle and Zoe had wound up dog-sitting six large animals when three different neighbors went into hospital. They acted out various mishaps the giant beasts had caused. Varain and Syl had had to move after their landlord died. Sparks nearly flew from Syl as she described trying to pack and move with three day's notice during lockdown. 

Tessa had been forced to work six to seven days a week as nursing home staff quit. Her hips killed her, she sighed, but she had lost ten pounds!

Gentle Hattie, gray faced and fragile, had lost three aunts, her daughter and her mother in the Forest Acres outbreak just two months into the pandemic. Her voice quavered as she spoke her daughter Tamsyn's name. Han held her hand and hovered protectively.

Two hours later, the table was emptied of hummus, cheeses, eggs and chips, and the guests were emptied of stories. Everyone had heard about Tamsyn's final gasping breaths. Belle and Zoe had shared several recipes for fermenting things, and Feria had cooed, cried and pooped. Now Feria napped and the adults gathered at the table with a bit more solemnity. Iris tossed salt at the cardinal points, butterflied around the room with smoking sage.

Genevieve appeared with straws to choose the order of invocation. Iris laughed outright at this old-fashioned tradition, ready to somehow employ a random number generator, but Genevieve overrode her. With the four blessing openers chosen, they entered the circle.

Varain lighted the first candle, his dark fingers snapping the match alight. He smiled at Syl warmly. "A light for our love."

Andrescu lit the second, his wrinkled brow creased with focus. "A light for our path into the future." He softly patted Feria's head.

Iris had been chosen for third, which made Genevieve worry a little, but hers was not bad: "A light for the joy of being alive." 

Hattie was last. "A light..." she paused and tears rolled over her cheeks. Genevieve longed to squeeze her hand, but she was across the table. "A light for the DEAD." 

The last candle flared impossibly high, and the music cut off mid-note. 

Iris shrieked, jumped to her feet. 

"WE ARE HERE," her mouth shaped, and her voice sounded like a hellish choir. Wind filled the room but the candles did not blow out. Everyone froze... everyone except Andrescu. 

He rose from his seat, hands aloft, emanating power. His wrinkled hands worked furiously, tracing runes the rest were too young to remember. His 91 years now felt not like frailty, more like deep strength.

"I place my hold upon you!" he boomed, in a deep, loud voice. "Who comes to our summons, and what do you bring?"

Genevieve felt faint. She was not prepared for this. Goddess knows how long it was since this sort of thing had happened. Not in her 12 years with this coven, for sure. Thanks be to the good powers that they had Andrescu!

Iris stood very erect, stared, unblinking, still. 

"We who were lost at Forest Acres are come. Why were we invoked? Who are you to summon us?"

Hattie rose as if levitated. "Mother. I know you are there, I have felt you with me. It's Hattie."

Iris's face seemed to gently age, and her voice was now single. "Hattie, my love. You must let me go. I travel with all and they are not harmless. Release me. I love you."

Andrescu kept his hand aimed at Iris but turned his eyes to Hattie. "You are dragging these souls here. Hattie. You must let them go." 

Hattie was flushed. "Mom? Is Tamsyn there? Tamsyn?" 

Iris's voice was higher now. "Mother. I am so strong now. I can walk. I can run!" Iris hopped in place, seeming about to fly off.

"Tamsyn, my darling. Forgive me. The hospital had no space. I had no choice but to send you to Forest Acres."

"Mother!" Impatient now. Iris's foot stomped. "I am happier now! Father, help her understand!" She paused. 

"Wait. That isn't... you aren't guilty about that." She paused. Iris's blank eyes bore into Hattie who sunk back into her seat.

"That's not it at all, is it?"

Hattie cried softly "No, no no no no..."

Iris glided around Varain and Syl to Hattie's side, as Han tried to insert himself.

She looked into his eyes and her own widened. "You are not my father." 

Terry pushed away from the table at this. "You said--!" he blurted at Hattie, but Tamsyn-who-was continued, "But that isn't it, either is it, mother?"

"Tell them. Tell Grandmother and her sisters why they died. Tell them."

Hattie clutched Iris' hand, crying. 

"I was the carrier, wasn't I, mother? And you knew. I was sick when I went in... sick with the virus. And you sent me to a home full of old, susceptible people. YOU KNEW!"

Andrescu visibly paled. One of his oldest friends had died at Forest Acres. 

"Hattie, can this be so?"

Hattie wailed, ripped at her clothes. "I thought that she would be safer there! They could treat her!" 

Han had backed up. "Hattie...."

"I didn't think it would spread so fast! Mother, Aunties, forgive me!"

Iris shrieked again, with the chorus of voices, as wind rushed through the room. The candles blew out then. Iris fell back into a chair. 

Genevieve rushed to her side, felt her pulse. Belle and Zoe brought a cool cloth, while Han and Terry held a quiet, intense conversation. Jim checked on Hattie, who had fallen unconscious. Lola rocked Feria. Varain and Syl helped Andrescu to the sofa. Tessa brought a pitcher of exceptionally strong mojitos and everyone had a shot.

Iris eventually became coherent and was upset she remembered nothing. 

It was midnight, and as the clock "bonged" its first stroke, Andrescu rose and strode across the room to Hattie. With a voice not his own, he said, "Heather, my child. You are forgiven."

Hattie was wonderstruck.

"Ostara blesses you. This is the time for renewal." He took Han's hand and placed it on Hattie's, pressing them together.

"New beginnings." 

And Hattie, forty-five years old, touched her swelling belly in wonder.  

Devil's Tools

Nothing comes back from Lavery Road but the wind. Folks talk hushed about old Ma Lavery. Older’n dirt. Meaner’n badgers. Family all gone.  Fever? I ask. Nope. Disappeared. 

Pastor says visitin’s a Christian duty. He don’t, but I oughta.

Rotten apple doll rockin’ on the porch, shufflin’ cards.  “Playin’ cards is Devil’s tools.” 

Shiny black bean eyes. Clawed hand pokes out. “Cut.”  Shakes the deck. Afeared, I snatch a hot handful. 

“Queen,” she wheezes. 

“Miz Lavery…”  Card’s gettin' hotter.  

Ma laughs. Winks at the queen of diamonds. I stare back, burnin’, trapped. 

She fans the cards, checkin’ the family.  Shuffles. 

****

Written for the 100-word Microfiction Competition, NYCMidnight, May 2021.

Nothing to Fear But

Nothing to Fear But

Teddy is learning that working as a washroom attendant is an opportunity to face his fears. And then a man dies in his washroom and Teddy has to help his killer escape.

Written for NYC Midnight Short Story Competition, January 2021. Prompts were:

Genre: Thriller  Character: Washroom Attendant  Theme: Fear of Heights.

* * * * * *  

Cold sweat slid down the back of Teddy's pants. Knees almost level with his eyes, he was too tightly wedged to take a deep breath. He listened to a toilet flush, breathing shallowly as legs strobed past the grate and out the bathroom door. Didn’t stop to wash his hands. Teddy couldn't spare a thought to the germs because the dark, tight walls were crushing him.

What was Uncle Burns thinking when he got his anxious nephew this job?

He unclasped his hands and forced himself to stretch his left hand. Felt the cool beads against his wrist with his clammy palm. Drew a ragged breath. “I am calm. I am in control,” he muttered, sliding from bead to bead. “This is fine. I can breath.”

BEEP! He started, banging his head. Felt his heart crash against his quadriceps. Three minutes. He could get out. Dr. Hasslebeck would be happy. Exposure therapy -- day 12. Done.

Time to get back to the serious business of inhaling fecal germs and handing out towels to men who never touched soap or water. He shuddered, but was calmer as he started to pop the duct cover open while the washroom was empty.

Whoops, damn. Two men entered the room, one following the other. It was awkward to crawl out with others there. His heartbeat ramped up. Trapped.

He felt his ears stretch, listening. One man was mumbling, in a gravelly voice. The other was silent.

He clutched his bracelet, focussed on counting his exhales, listening, praying it was two quick number ones. TALK AT THE TABLES, he silently screamed.

Mumbles was getting louder. "I done the job, Gerry. That bitch is dead. No more senator, no more gun law. I done it for you. Cuz you asked me to." The ingratiating boastful voice dropped to a confiding tone. "Cuz you said you would PAY me. Where’s my money Gerry?" A clicking he recognized from movies.

Teddy tried holding his ragged breath to be silent. Did Mumbles just cock a gun? His companion uttered a soothing sound. Suddenly -- Stomp. Smack. Clunk, skree! Outside his vent he saw a glint of metal.

Mumbles, you suck at this, thought Teddy.

Then, a crunch. A wet thump. A calm voice. "Idiot."

Teddy glimpsed glazed eyes, head at a weird angle. Clamped both his hands to his mouth to stifle a whimper.

The other man stooped to grab the gun and paused. He was facing the duct cover. One corner was popped out… would he notice?

He turned slightly, still crouched. Teddy remembered his uniform jacket was crumpled outside the duct. Felt sick. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying. Risked a peek, willing his head not to move. A rugged face a foot from the vent. Could he see Teddy?

Teddy saw his jacket rise and slowly exhaled.

"Now, where are you?" The man had a clipped accent. Sounded like Bond.

Listening as the steps moved away, Teddy swallowed hard and glanced down the gloomy duct. As the farthest stall door was pushed open, Teddy wiggled and slid sideways until he was belly-down and started pushing through the duct into the close dark.

He softly breathed, “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. There is nothing in the dark. I have lots of air.”

His foot slipped, lost purchase and kicked out behind him.

CLANG. The duct cover loudly popped off. Teddy scrambled, and screamed as a hand grabbed his ankle.

As he was pulled to the bathroom floor, a finger in his face: “Shut up.”

Teddy was a drenched noodle, a lanky teen in ill-fitting uniform pants and a Pokemon t-shirt, cowering on the floor clutching a beaded bracelet.

The man was tall, wearing a very expensive looking suit. He may have sounded like Bond, but he looked like a villain: dark slicked hair, crooked nose.

He wasn’t pointing a gun, but his stern look was frightening enough. “What did you hear?”

“NOTHINGNOTHINGIHEARDNOTHING.” It came out sounding hysterical.

The man sighed. Pulled a roll of duct tape from somewhere in his jacket.

Teddy gulped.

“I’m going to tape your mouth so you can’t make noise. You need to calm down and breathe through your nose.”

Teddy stared, ducked his chin.

“It’s your lucky day. I need a helper. You’re going to help me clean this up.”

The tape went over the sweaty skin around his mouth and for a moment Teddy panicked, feeling the claustrophobia again.

“Put your jacket on.” Thrusting the garment at Teddy. Pulling his sleeves on, he resisted picking at the tape.

The man hoisted the body to a semi-standing position, held him under the shoulder like a sloppy drunk. “Wipe up the floor. Good. Wipe down the knobs. Now open the door. I locked it, so you’ll have to pull the shim out.”

Teddy was drawing ragged nasal breaths. He tugged at the piece of wood holding the door closed. The man reached past him and pulled it out.

“Open the door and check the hall.”

Teddy peeked out, knowing that it was unlikely they would see anyone. On nights without shows, this part of the Casino was quiet. He saw more solo number twos and fewer tips. He nodded over his shoulder, not meeting the man’s eyes.

“Good lad. Walk out to the left and then get on the other side of this fellow and help me carry him.”

Teddy shrank from touching the dead body, wondering about fluids expelled at death and other gruesome details. They were headed to the far elevators, the ones that led to the roof and the penthouse.

“Do you have elevator keys?”

Teddy shook his head slightly.

“Ted! You abandoning your post?” A voice behind them -- his uncle the security guard.

From the corner of Teddy’s eye, he saw the man give him a tiny headshake. Then the man spoke calmly over his shoulder, “The boy is helping us. My friend has had entirely too much to drink I’m afraid.”

His uncle chuckled, approaching. “Ted ain’t strong enough to carry a tune. Here, let me help.”

Teddy winced as Uncle Burns reached for the limp arm across his nephew’s shoulders.

The body slid away and with a neat pivot, the suited man clubbed Burns with the gun butt. The guard slumped to the floor.

Hefting the body over his shoulder, the man barked, “Let’s go, Ted.” The gun was in his hand.

Teddy scrambled to the elevators. Then he realized which elevator he was entering.

The roof.

The helipad.

40 stories in the air.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The man tugged him inside and he slumped to the floor as the man punched the button.

“‘Ain’t strong enough to carry a tune.’” The stranger half-smiled, not looking at Teddy.

 

As the door slid open, the suited man pulled out the dead body and shaking teen.

A small helicopter was sitting on the pad.

Teddy was hyperventilating. The duct tape that had only had minor purchase on his slick skin slid off the left side of his mouth. He barely noticed. He dropped, curling into a fetal position.

The wind whipped his jacket as he lay on the roof.

The man knelt beside him.

“Ted. Ted. I don’t want to kill you. Do you understand me?” Teddy nodded an inch. “I have a code. This man,” he thumped the body’s thin chest, “he did bad things. He had to die.”

Teddy stared at him. Did bad things because you were going to pay him! He said nothing, as he tried to stop hyperventilating.

“Ted, I need your help. There is an open dumpster over there.” He pointed to the side of the roof he was facing. “I need you to help me throw this man into it.”

Teddy wondered when his heart would actually stop. It should be soon.

“I will hurt you if I have to. But I don’t want to. So don’t make me do it. Alright? Get up.”

The man pulled him to his feet. “Call me Mr. George. Do you understand me Ted?”

As the man ripped the dangling duct tape off, Ted croaked, “M…Mr. George.”

“Very good. Do you understand what we are doing?”

“I c - can’t.”

An eyebrow cocked.

“It it’s h-h-heights. I … ca..”

“Ted. Ted.” Putting a kindly crushing hand on his shoulder. “I believe in you.” Patted him. “Grab the feet.”

The dead man had a short, wiry build. He probably only weighed twenty pounds more than Teddy.

The man grasped the body under the arms, waited for Teddy to get a hold, and pulled them all toward the edge. Tears filled Teddy’s eyes. He imagined the sensation of falling. Kept trying to lift the man’s feet, trying to stay far away from the edge.

At two feet from the edge, Ted was hyperventilating again, and felt like he might pass out.

“Okay, Ted, here’s the thing. We need to swing him over the edge. The dumpster is out from the edge of the building. There are balconies on the side. We can’t have him land on a balcony. Do you understand me?”

Teddy tried to imagine standing at the edge of the roof, the weight of the swinging body pulling him back and forth, toppling over the edge. He fainted.

Mr. George drew a deep breath. Cracked his knuckles. Stretched his neck. Paced back and forth sharply once.

Then he slapped Teddy.

“Stand up, Ted. Wait, first, take this.” Handed him a pill he pulled from his pocket.

Ted stared at it.

“It’s Ativan, it’s fine.”

“I know, I know what Ativan is.” Maybe the man was a friend after all. He slid the pill under his tongue.

“Come with me.” He grasped Teddy’s arm and pulled him to the edge of the roof.

Ted felt a plunging sensation, like he was plummeting to his death. His head swam. The tops of the awnings at street level looked tiny. He imagined his body flapping through the air, ripping right through an awning. His stomach swam.

“You are fine. I am fine. Look at me. We are going to carry the body to here,” he scratched a line about six inches from the edge, “Give it a heave and let it go. I need to get moving. We’re going to do this now.”

He dragged Teddy back to the body.

Ted picked up the man’s feet and took a deep breath. He looked at the man’s pocket where the gun bulged.

“Throw the body, then I can go inside ?”

The man grunted.

Forcing himself to breathe slower, Teddy focused on lifting the body. Focused on the ground. Approached the edge, resolutely ignoring it.

“Now. Swing. Count of” - he squinted at Ted – “uh, two.”

Focused on swinging.

“And a ONE. And a TWO-- HUP!”

As soon as the body left his hands he backed up two feet from the edge.

The body flopped gracelessly over the edge. Ted was sure they had missed the dumpster. He felt exhausted and limp, like all adrenaline had left his system, taking his bones with it. He almost fainted again.

Mr. George put his arm across Ted’s shoulders, shepherding him back from the edge. Ted almost smiled as he got closer to the elevator, but then he realized the man was pulling him on, towards the helicopter.

“No no no NO NO NO!” Ted screamed. He tried to struggle free.

The elevator lights were starting to ascend. This time Mr. George had had enough. A gentle rap with the gun butt, and he tossed Ted into the helicopter. Got it started as security flooded out of the sliding doors.

He yelled, “I HAVE A HOSTAGE,” pointing to Ted’s slumped body. Burns, holding a towel to his head, waved at his colleagues.

The tiny helicopter lifted off.

Teddy groggily lifted his head, saw the roof slope away, then slide out from under them. He looked down. Traffic was a herd of beetles miles below.

His heart fluttered at the top of his chest like a bird in snare. He tried to take a deep breath, found himself shrieking as he looked wildly around for something to cling to.

He pulled on the seatbelt, was unable to clip it. Clutching it tightly, he touched his bracelet, trying to rein in his panic. He sat, frozen, mumbling affirmations.

Finally the Ativan started to soften the edge of his hysteria. He thought about asking for another one, rejected it as he imagined falling asleep and sliding out of the chopper somehow.

The man noticed Ted’s calmer demeanor. Gave him a thumbs up.

Ted smiled, yelled, “Thanks for the pill.”  Settled into the relaxed feeling. Looking at the distant horizon wasn’t horrible.

“I’m curious, why were you hiding you in that duct?” The man yelled over the engine.

“I was getting used to it, to fight my claustrophobia.” The man nodded as if this was an entirely normal thing. “Hey, maybe this will help my fear of heights!”

Police cars massed below them. A police helicopter was droning in the distance.

“Maybe so. We may need to do some fancy flying, Ted. I planned to land under the bridge, but that may not be an option.”

“I hope Uncle Burns is okay. He got me the job.” The Ativan was working with the adrenalin aftermath to make Ted chatty. “Three weeks ago. I got locked in the second night. It was pretty freaky. Who knew being a bathroom attendant was so dangerous?” Ted nodded to himself sagely. Laughed.

“Say, who was that guy you wasted?”

“Don’t ask me questions.”

“Okay, Mr. Gerry.” Teddy was getting sleepy.

The man’s head whipped around.

“What did you call me?”

Ted’s eyes popped opened as he realized his error.

They were nearing the bridge. Gerry suddenly banked hard. Ted, unbuckled, slid sideways.

“I’m sorry, kid. I wish you hadn’t said that.”

Ted realized that Gerry was reaching for the gun. He pushed back, hard. Kicked out wildly and hit a switch. Felt the helicopter sputter. It began sliding from the sky. With the Ativan feeling like a cushion around his flaming centre of panic, Ted clawed behind him, tugging at the door. As they hit the water, he felt his beads spill off his wrist and the door wrenched open. The water rose up, and he kicked out of the vehicle. He blacked out.

He came to hearing someone saying his name. Uncle Burns.

“Ted! He’s coming to!” A policeman who had been administering first aid stopped and leaned back.

“Ted, you okay?” his uncle’s voice was anxious. “Your mom’s gonna shoot me. I spose you’ll never leave your room again after this?”

The boat rocked gently in the lapping water and he felt adrift in the soft embrace of the Ativan.

Ted answered, dreamy, “Uncle Burns, it’s okay! I think… I’m not afraid of anything now!”

He rested another moment, then turned to the officer.

“Do you happen to have any sanitizer?”