Clockwork Holiday

LOVE LOST FICTION
by Queenie

Chapter One
Slow Hands

They were standing behind the mall. Phill handed John the cigarette, shuffling his feet.
"I think it is going to happen tonight," Phil said, head bent, muttering to the ground.
"Yeah, buddy?" John asked, slowly.
Phill looked up at the steel grey November sky, before he replied.
"She just smells so great."
John shoved him in the arm, a short chuckle.
"Buddy, you are weird," he smiled.

Chapter Two
Every Hour, On The Hour

Miranda sat in the bathroom, her head against the bathroom door, sometimes cool on her forehead. She could not take another day. She did not know what to do.
Eighteen days and counting.
She could feel it rising again, deep inside of her, feel the burn as it made it's way up.
She reached the toilet just in time.
And she was quiet while she vomited.
She grabbed Phill before homeroom, pulling him outside the big green doors of the high school.
They skipped school and sat in the woods.
They both said 'I love you'.
And he did.

Chapter Three
Ticking

The walls were lined with green tile, but the room was warm. Miranda could feel the patch of sweat forming on her back, dampening the gown they had made her wear.
She looked down at her feet noticing the toenails needed to be painted, the light purple flaked mostly off.
She thought of the paper she had to finish off for English class.
She thought of the chicken and potatoes her mother had made for supper.
She thought of the money she had saved in her piggy bank at home.
She thought of anything else she could while she got herself dressed and walked outside into the deep, damp, dark night.
The doctor had said she was pregnant.

Chapter Four
This Time

She walked, towards the darkness and away from the lights, the safety of her city.
She walked and rubbed her stomach and could smell the rain coming in the air. Felt it clinging to her skin already.
She walked, her head swimming. Not real thoughts forming, just bits and pieces. Frustration made her want to cry, but there was not time for that ever again, she knew. It was a price she would pay.
She turned, looking behind her seeing the headlights coming towards and she stuck out her thumb.
And the green car pulled over.
He was old, with long hair and a black t-shirt. She could smell the must when he rolled down the window.
"Need a ride, honey," he said, but with kindness. "Where are you heading?"
She looked at him and the package of cigarettes up on his dashboard.
She thought of her parents, warm in their bed.
She thought of the boy, playing video games, waiting for her phone call.
She thought of things she could not conceive, she could barely glean.
"Where ever you are going," she finally said.

Anything Goes

Four Years Old

Tommy slapped her baby hands, watching the faint pink spread through her soft flesh.
She had tried to pull back the green curtains again.
Momma had not been home for two days and the phone was ringing all the time. Tommy was mad because it was so close to dark and he would have to shut-off the TV soon. Sissy was wide awake.
Tommy let the tears rush down his face, as Sissy screamed, her face red, her eyes mad at him.
"No, no, no, Sissy," he tried to keep his voice quiet, he squeaked. "No, remember. No. We have to be quiet."
She screamed louder, moving closer to his face.
Sissy was so, so mad at him.
"Cookies, Sissy, we have two more cookies."

He felt her dirty hands and eyes watch as he moved towards the sink, holding her baby bottle.
The milk was almost gone; he filled the bottle the rest of the way with water, just a quarter full of milk to begin with inside.
He could feel the anger, his tears almost dry on his cheeks and he wanted to kill Momma. Rip her hair and kick her, poke her in the eyes for surely she would die from that.
From that and the hate she would see in his eyes. The bitter consuming empty he hate he felt. He would shoot it like knives into her eyes.
She would see it and die.
Because her heart would be broken.
He heard the knocking on the front
door.
Bang. Bang. Bang. He only paused for a second, looking at Sissy and her wet, untrustful blue eyes.
He was so mad.
He was so in love.
He stormed to the door and he did not care what happened. He was so tired.
He opened the door, smooth.

Feeding The Habit

Life Is A Highway
8 Years Old

I enjoyed my morning walks to school; I no longer had to walk my younger brother there. Mikey could run like the wind was after his soul and he was daring her to take it, in those days. The boy ran to school every morning.
I would stop at the end of the long driveway, following the brown picket fence to the sidewalk.
I would open the book I was carrying and walk down the sidewalk, with assurance. I knew every dip, every incline. It was not as risky as it seemed. My nose buried. In fantasy. Not watching.
Until I would arrive in front of the Ross' home. They had a dark black driveway. With brick columns at the end of it on either side. That had surveillance cameras in them. The big brick house always had the curtains drawn. I missed the steps of the little white chapel that had been sitting there instead, only a year before hand. I always walked fast passed their home, comfortable when I came to the smaller and grander stone fence of their Porch Over.
Everyday, the little old lady at the first corner would stand in her housecoat, a square of brown curtain opened in her window.
I would look up from my book and she would smile and wave at me.
I never spoke to her.
Never saw her any other time.
Never knew her name.
She was there Everyday.

The Crossing Guard was where we would all meet, coming from all the directions on the busy street leading out of town, geared in our backpacks.
To walk down the street, that highway, to the next corner.
Where there were no sidewalks. We would walk with the cars climbing up to us, some with early morning headlights on. Marching side by side in groups of two or three.
Pretending we could not see the cars.
There was a safer way to school.
But this was the most dangerous thing we knew.

Next week, I start a new Everyday.
A big risk.
But I discovered a long time ago, I liked being risky, walking down West Street, facing the growls and purrs of passing motors.
Some risks are just meant to be taken.
I gotta keep Feeding The Habit.

Acceptable Forms Of Revenge

8 Months Old

There she was sitting in her silly looking yellow and green bouncing thing that had taken over the good old fashioned Jolly Jumper. The large circle thing took up so much space in my small living room; I was always stubbing my toe on it.
And there she was, my beautiful daughter grinning and bouncing and babbling...
"Mom, mom, mom."
After she had been up all night long.
Keeping me awake. All night long.
That is when I noticed a small blue squirt gun sitting beside the couch, left behind by a cousin.
So, I went and filled it up.

For the rest of the day, when my daughter's smile got to be too much for me too handle-I would squirt water at her. I would do this with amazing sneakiness.
She would be all smiles and then wet.
She would stop smiling. Her face would pucker up into a frown and she would let out two short cries before narrowing her eyes and looking around.
She would even look at me.
I would just pretended I was watching the TV.
It was so much fun, I continued the game the very next day.
I got sloppy.
And caught.
She laughed at me, smiling wide and proud of herself.

Ladies In Red

It was three nights ago now, close to bedtime when my son informed me there had been a lady bug in his Lamp Shade all day.
"Lady Bugs are nice Bugs," I said.
"Yeah," he replied.
I thought about...

...a few weeks ago when The Spider had been in his Lamp Shade. A Spider with long legs.
My son had noticed him at three in the afternoon. Both of us just decided to not go into his room for the rest of the day.
I even let him stay-up half an hour later than usual.
The Spider was still in the Lamp Shade, when I had to put him to bed.
And my son was not going to go to sleep with The Spider in his room.
And I am never touching a spider.
So, I got out the broom and killed my second spider ever...

Bradlee and his mother are Everyday visitors in my home. Bradlee's mother likes coffee. Like me. But sometimes we have to drink pop. And once, orange juice.
The boys always take off to my son's room. And they are heathens. But in away that really hurts no one. Hardly ever even each other.
For the past few days, every time I have checked on them, they have been playing with the plastic tennis rackets and baseball bats.
I will admit, they looked vaguely guilty.
But when I looked around the room, nothing was broken.
No one was screaming.
So, I let them have their fun.

Last night, my son showed me there was three Lady Bugs in his Lamp Shade.
"Are they Bugging you?" I asked.
"Not really," he said. "Me and Bradlee have been getting rid of lots."
"Oh," I said. "I think Lady Bugs are cute."
"Yeah," he said. "Bradlee does not."
I looked around his room.
"Well, at least you guys are getting rid of the bodies."
"In the toilet," he said.
"Be careful who you tell that to," I said, as I closed his bedroom door.
And decided to go pee.
There was a Lady Bug crawling over my cold water tap.
Well, I use hot water to wash my hands.

I was doing dishes when I noticed a Lady Bug on one of the blue coffee mugs sitting on my counter. She looked comfortable, so I did not wash it.
Besides, I can appreciate anything that enjoys a good cup of coffee.
There was another Lady Bug in my window sill, enjoying the evening breeze like me. And one who was climbing up my top cupboards. Who knows why. But she seemed to know.

One was walking lazily along the green table cloth on my dining room table.
"Not quite like grass, is it?" I said to her, and let her be because I noticed one climbing up my Big White front door.
"You maybe what outside?" I asked.
So, I opened the Big White door, but left the Screen Door closed.
I am under the assumption, Lady Bugs are the magical kind of bugs that can walk through a Screen Door if they so desire to.

I settled into my chair in front on the computer last night to write.
But I also took messages from someone on my Messenger.
I let him know I was infested with Lady Bugs.
I was hoping for some insight.
He typed back about gnats sometimes having sex on garbage.
I sighed. Nobody knows how to get rid of Lady Bugs, because they are not annoying. Or gross.
And I let The Voice know this.
You are picking the wrong bugs, Dumbass, I told him.
Then I looked up at the Lady Bug ontop of my monitor.
"How's it going, Ethel?" I said to her.
She must have been sleeping because she did not answer. This made me think of Stupid Fly.
Do you suppose Ethel is really Stupid Fly re-incarnated? I asked The Voice.
You are an idiot, he replied.
And I just let him have the last word. I have to sometimes, or he gets all pissy.

Into This World We're Thrown

13 Years Old

I once had the cutest boyfriend. His name was Chris. Everyone called him Babyface.
He had long blonde hair, halfway down his back and blue eyes. He wore jean jackets. And glasses when he had to read something.
He wore pink because he could, not because he was questioning his sexuality. He knew already, it brought it out.
I remember leaning up against him, between his legs; in my older brother's room passing bottles of Southern Comfort and lemon gin. And bubblegum
Chris liked Metallica like me. Chris taught me about The Doors.
On a Friday afternoon, at 11:35 a.m., I would look out the door of my typing class and there would be Chris and Bill. We would hang out at the mall and I would not go back to class.

I met Chris on a dare.(Do you remember, Juner?)
We were making prank phone calls. Some rude. Some dirty. All funny. Someone knew Chris and the telephone was put in my hand.
"Call him," I was urged. "Do Sexy Sylvia."
So, of course I did.
"Hello," I said. "Is Chris there?"
"Speaking."
Hmmm. He sounded cute, even!
So, I decided my voice needed to be breathy, too. I am sure at 14, I might have maybe sounded like a coked-out porn star.
"This is Sexy Sylvia in lace underwear. I have three articles of clothing on. Pick a number between one and three and maybe I'll take something off for ya."
We ended up talking for a few hours.

I remember breaking-up with Chris on the steps of a church at one in the morning. The ground was wet with recent rain, filling our noses, the damp wind touching our faces.
I remember watching him storm away down the middle of the road.
"Now," Bill said to me, shaking his head. "What did you go and do that for?"
I remember standing there thinking the same thing.

On A Personal Note

The Best Part of My Day

Messenger 4.7 and 6.2

Mountains

Grade One

Adam's backyard faced the back of the school yard. Adam's backyard was a huge hill.
Being in the same grade with Adam meant many field trips to his house in the winter months for tobogganing.
His mother had long brown hair and she always had rice crispie squares and hot chocolate waiting for us when we were done.

Adam had orange hair and eye glasses. He wore plaid button up shirts tucked into his corduroy pants.
One day his shoe fell off during recess.
"You do not have toenails!" I said to him, surprised.
"I know," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
"I Dunno," he replied. "No one in my family does."
"Did you ever have them?"
"Yes," he said.
This scared me.

Adam was the smartest kid in class. He could draw real well. I could not. I remember wanting to tear up his picture of little Indian men.

Mrs. McCrory was our teacher. She liked it when we read books. If you read 10 books you would get a pin, 20 books, a bookmark. If you read 60 books, she would take you to McDonalds for lunch.
Adam beat me by three books. He was always doing stuff like that. And he always had his hand in the air.
And he pronounced my name 'Beff'.
Sometimes I wanted to break Adam's glasses.

It was the middle of Winter. There had been lots of snowfall. It had been plowed to the edges of the school's blacktop. All the way around. You had to climb the hard snow to reach the top.
Slides were made, forts were built, hard snowballs were thrown.
'I am the King of the Castle
And you're the Dirty Rascal...' everyone seemed to scream.
One recess, it was decided that the newest fort was called Castle Grayskull. Brett decided I was going to be She-Ra and Adam was going to be He-Man.
I looked at Adam as we stood on the large hill of ice and snow. I said "Well, we better kiss, then."
I mashed my 6 year old mouth into his and pulled away.
He just stood there, staring at be wide-eyed and blushing.
The next day at recess I kicked him really hard in the shins because the kiss had not made him stupider.

Love Lost Fiction

LADDERS
by Queenie

Chapter One
Climbing

It had been a surprise to meet up with him in the city Eve had moved to only a month before hand.
"Hey," he had said and smiled at her, stopping on the sidewalk. He had looked fabulous wearing his designer jeans and baggy Roots sweater in the Saturday afternoon sunlight.
"Oh, wow," she had replied back. "Bobby fucking Gilmore. I cannot believe it."
She had been embarrassed when he asked her to the local deli for a sandwich and a Coke. But she went with him anyway, still dressed in her suit and Prada shoes from her weekend morning at the office.
They had talked for hours. And walked, too.
It was dusk before they arrived, standing in front of her doorstep and of course, she had invited him in for coffee.
They had been sitting on her leather sofa when he suddenly looked over at her.
"Remember all that time ago in the back of Dan's Pontiac?"
Eve smiled, because she did.
And their love making that night seemed familiar and wild in a way neither had known. He had kissed her breasts, he had been waiting so long.
The next morning he asked her to dinner at his house for that night.
She had said yes and after he left, she had called Phill and cancelled their date to the opera.

Chapter Two
At The Top

Bobby's studio apartment was even better than he had described it the night before, Eve had found out. It was rich with oak floors and modern with black upon black. The walls were a low white. She thought it was a steal for the $2700 he was paying a month for it.
She took the wine he offered.
He had cooked a meal for a woman and when they were done, he had taken out his camera and took pictures of her naked on the rug in front of the fireplace until he could not just look at her a second longer.
They had both taken that Monday off of work and they drove to the coast in his black BMW.
There was a slight breeze coming off the water that day. They were laughing and free, arms all over each other. She had worn white capris, their bare feet skipping through the sand.

Chapter Three
Black Cat

Bobby was out of town a lot on photo shoots. Even when he was in town, he was working late.
Eve noticed Jerry at work had been giving her the eye. He was on he road to Vice-President.

It was after 10 p.m. when the plane touched down; he knew she was not expecting him until morning. But he had missed her.
He was happy to see the lights in her townhome burning when he drove up.

Eve had thought it was the Delivery Boy, opening the door in her black silk robe.
Jerry sitting on the couch in red satin boxers.
Bobby looked at her.
"I thought about you for years," he said.
Then he had walked away.

Chapter Four
Snakes

15 years. 15 years ago now, since she has seen Bobby.
She sits on her white couch, knees to chin in her jeans and black sweater.
She sighs, stretching out before she stands to go upstairs.
To put on her Italian swimwear.
The pool boy was due any minute.

Fly In The Coop

Stupid Fly has been living in my house for almost a month. Even when I removed more screens from my windows so Chicky could bring his own budgie ass home; Stupid Fly never left. Stupid Fly however, did welcome the company of his own I think, as a few other Flying Things stopped in for a visit then. Chicky never did make his way back home.
For the most part, I ignored Stupid Fly. I saw him seldom and only remarking to Stupid Fly that obviously drinking from the toilet was making him more retarded made The Voice heckle me.
So, I pretty much pretended Stupid Fly did not exist.
Except that one time I opened up the Hallway Closet and he came bobbling out. He looked no real worse for the wear, mind you. He still had a glazed look to him as he flew down the Hallway. He almost bumped into the walls five times. That was his average.
I said "Stupid Fly, I am sorry."
The Hallway Closet had not been opened in three days.

Stupid Fly was pretty quiet as far as Flying Things go. He did not go around, showing off his buzzer, flying into your face, making dares with other Flying Things as to which object would try to swat them.
You know, all Stupid Fly pretty much did was bobble along right on pass you. Every once in awhile. I did not miss him when he was in the closet because he really was just that quiet. And unobtrusive.
Until last week.
Stupid Fly landed on top of my computer monitor.

So, I ignored Stupid Fly for the first night. For the most part.
Once in awhile, I would look up and say "Oh. You're still here, are you, Stupid?"
I am sure he was too stunned I had spoken to him to even reply.

On the second night, I was a little creeped out because I noticed every time I looked at Stupid Fly, he was looking at me. I think.
And since he was quiet, so was I.

On the third night, I realized Stupid Fly was not going anywhere. So, I looked at him.
"Got any request as far as music goes?" I asked.
Stupid Fly might have answered if given the chance.
Why don't you ever ask me that? demanded The Voice.
I sighed and decided to just ignore them both for the night.

On the fourth night, I looked up at Stupid Fly, sitting there, immobile. His fourth night of staring at me.
"You are getting fat sitting there, Stupid," I said to him. I put a piece of popcorn beside him and I am sure his mouth was too full and he would have choked, had he answered me.

On the fifth night, I was sitting here, typing away. When AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Flying Thing!!!
In my face!
BUZZING!
So, I squealed like a girl. Then I moved around swatting, all girly. Because really.
I just wanted the Flying Thing away from me. If I swatted enough, it might go on its own without me having to...touch it.
And then the buzzing stopped and I looked up just in time to see Stupid Fly landing back in his usual spot.
I just kept looking at him. But I said nothing.
Stupid Fly was getting to be a little on the scary side and I did not want to make him mad.

On the sixth night, I noticed Stupid Fly and his getting rounder by the minute body and said, "Sucks when you eat next to nothing and still get fat, eh?"
So, Stupid Fly flew in my face and I swatted. Then he went back to the monitor.
But I am telling you, Stupid Fly had went beserk!
He kept flying at me!!!
Sometimes he would land in my hair and walk around, before I could swat him away.
And it just kept happening.
Attack!
Swat!
The monitor was home base in this game.
In between attacks he would stare at me and sometimes I would stare back at his poor fat belly.
A few times I let him attack and gave him a second before I swatted.
He seemed to like my hair.
So, finally I just stopped swatting.
Stupid Fly walked around for a bit the next time he landed in my hair. Then he flew home.
Then he flew back to my head and when I did not swat again, he decided to stay.
"How do you spell exasperation?" I asked him once. When he did not answer, I just assumed he was having a nap.
And maybe he was, but it would be hard knowing it. He bumbled over to the monitor in his usual fashion when I stood up to go to bed. I had forgot he was even on my head.
"Good Night," I said to Stupid Fly, for the first time.
He did not answer. I just assumed he had not heard me. The Voice was busy telling me what was on TV at three in the morning.

This morning Stupid Fly was still sleeping upon my monitor. With his little black feet in the air on his back.
I was amazed that Stupid Fly understood the concept of Sleep-In Sundays to even say anything to him.
So, I went to Wal-Mart and then I came home.
To a still lazy, still sleeping Stupid Fly. He had not moved position at all!
"Hey, pal," I said to him. "You have been sitting there for a week now. But really. Feet up in the air? Do you not think you are over-stepping the boundaries of 'guest in my house' a little bit too much here?"
Stupid Fly kept right on sleeping. And I wanted to flick him. So, I told him I was going to.
Idiot, said The Voice. The fly is dead.
Yes and it is still a Flying Thing, I replied as I shook my head. And I still do not want to touch it.

Hooker 101

She wanted it so bad, she could feel it every waking minute.
She had nothing to offer anyone, but she wanted to be able to.
Hand to mouth, she lived, breathing life-fire into those around her. Everyone she could. It kept her life-fire alive.
Her one hope alive.
And that was going to happen.
God, she could smile.

Until the last moment. She was two days away from it all.
Oh, she had the money in her hands, the exact amount.
She had pulled every string in her hand to mouth existence to make sure of it.
But something else had fallen through. Nobody's fault. It just had.
And the money in her hand suddenly had new responsibility.

She made some phone calls and then she took some.
She tried on some clothes. She did not have what she needed. She just did her best.
At least she owned some really bad make-up.
She filled her bag and then got dressed in her favorite outfit.

She had no idea where to really go. So, she just picked a place and used a public washroom.
Afterall, telephone booths were too public. The thought made her smile. But not really.

It was not long before an offer was made.
She leaned in the passenger side window.
"$160," she said to him.

A Never Ending List

I thought they were in college for months. I found out recently they are in high school. I do not care. This blog is a whack of fun.

This guy is brilliant. And funny. And I think a little weirded he has readers.

KJB got me hooked on a boy.

Liberty Bob caught me. That does not happen often. I use my wheels pretty well.

The newest added to my Favorites List.

Read it all.

Punks-Not Right After The Beginning

Minnie was 14. She liked bright red lipstick and getting high.
Minnie wanted to go over to visit her best friend, Krystal, she told Tommy.
"Whatever," he said.
"You do not care if we go there?" she asked him.
"No," he said.
But he did.
Minnie wondered why.

Tommy was a teenager so he took ally ways when he could. Minnie like ally ways, too. Downtown had a few lean ones behind the old buildings built too close together.
The smell of garbage was stale and seemed to seep out of the bricks of the stores that had been there forever. Or so Minnie's mother said.
Halfway down, behind the hardware store, she bounced her hip off his, catching Tommy off guard. He stumbled, scattering stone, before he caught himself.
"Hey-" he said, looking at her.
"Wanna make-out?" she bit her lip and grinned at him.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, coming closer to his face. She looked up at him. Tommy watched her red lips part slightly and he could see the light moisture, soft, hugging her pink tongue.
He did not know what to do.
He could feel her breath, smell it and that was almost good enough. She scared him and thrilled him.
She pushed her mouth to his suddenly, hard.
He kissed her and he could hardly breathe, his hands glued to his sides, aching to grab her, to touch her. But he did not know how to.
He did not notice her hand leave his shoulder.

She touched him through his jeans.
"God," Tommy choked out. "Enough."
Minnie felt the heat between his legs, burning her fingertips. She looked up into his eyes.
"Okay," she smiled, taking a step backwards before she removed her hand.

Krystal's parents were never home.
They sat in the living room sprawled on floral furniture listening to her father's old Beatles records.
Bored. It is what they did best.
The front door opened and Krystal's little sister, came in, her blonde hair shiny and smooth.
Minnie watched her stop mid-step and look around the room.
Krystal stretched her leg out, her jeans too tight.
"Go away, Samantha," she snarled, through purple glossed lips.

27

I guess when I was two years old, I used to kiss my Aunt Sue's butt. Because she told me too.
I have no doubts I did.

I discovered at five years old, there was nothing better then my Aunt Sue, though. One night she gave me a party pooper perm and did my face all up with make-up. It was close to midnight before she was done dressing me up in my Grandmother's kitchen.
My eyes were glazed as I looked in the mirror, trying to see myself. The perm was gone by morning. She told me I could keep the shirt she had lent me. I wore it every time I got to spend the night at her house.
I thought it said 'I stop at all salons'.
On a later day, I learned it said 'saloons'. I was still five, so the adults pretty much laughed at me.
I remember looking the word up in the dictionary.

I was six years old when I learned Aunt Sue could burp the entire alphabet. On demand.
That was the year when she started giving me the finger too, just like she did with everyone else. Even Grandma.
She would let me give the finger anytime I wanted to when we were alone. Then she would try to con me into giving my Grandma the finger.
She listened to Boy George and Cyndi Lauper.
So did I.

I watched her torture flies by pulling off their wings one day. She was at work, behind the counter at Canadian Tire, bored out of her tree. I was seven years old.
She also taught me at seven years old how to do shots. With Diet Pepsi. So, my party trick mostly has to do with speed.

When I was eight years old, Aunt Sue made lazy-man cabbage rolls at her house. It is the only kind I still make.

Aunt Sue could shoot hoops pretty good. I was nine when she taught me how to. She would tell stories of how when I was in high school someday, I would see giant posters floor to ceiling of her in the gymnasium. The students still had to sing songs about her, she would say. I would have to one day, too. And then she would dance around.
Aunt Sue danced a lot. About everything.

Aunt Sue was always 27 years old when I was growing-up. If anyone asked that is what I would say. I do not know why. She just struck me as always being that age.
I still remember telling people she was 27 when I was 14 years old.
And I could not wait until I was there someday.
She was my hero.

Love Lost Fiction

HOLLYWOOD STARS
by Queenie

Chapter One
Star Dust

My best friend John. We have been buddies since Kindergarten. Lived a block away from each other. Hell, almost Everyday I had growing-up had him in it.
I know everything stupid he has ever done.
We were probably about 7 years old when Chelsea moved in the house 3 Doors Down from his. I knew right away she was going to be trouble. Her hair was way too nice.
I just kept my mouth shut hoping his fixation on her would go away.
Over the years, I finally just got used to her being there. Part of his world.
Chelsea had not even lived on the street two days when we started peering over John's fence and the few between over to her house. We watched Chelsea's dad put up the largest tree house we had ever seen. Complete with a huge red slide.
John watched because he already loved her.
I watched because these days I own my own construction business.

Chapter Two
Star Gazing

Over the years, Chelsea would play with us from time to time. Not too often. My freckled face buddy never did have enough nerve to talk to her first.
When we would get together with Rick and James we would terrorize the girls in the neighborhood with squirt guns.
He never once sprayed her.
And would beat up any one of us who did later on.
Whatever, he was my best buddy. I left the girl alone.
I remember a few times over the years riding my bike over to his house and noticing her there with him. I would just ride on by.
Sometimes I would tease him about her. He would tell me to shut-up.
Even when we were teenagers, you know, he never once said he wanted to throw it in her.
He never really did talk about her much.
But I knew he loved her.
I remember back in Grade Nine, Rick and Chelsea dated for awhile.
John was not into beating people up anymore. He just never talked to Rick again.

Chapter Three
Stars of Tomorrow

God, I remember it like it happened today. Our high school graduation. I had been on the football team all through school. Grad night rocked.
I remember just before we were leaving ceremonies, a bunch of us guys, heading towards the door.
Chelsea came running up to John and threw her arms around him.
"We made it, baby," she said loudly.
I just rushed the rest of the guys along and let him have his minutes with her. Besides, I had me a case of beer in the trunk of my Pontiac. She was my third car.

Chapter Four
Stars Burn Out

We were sitting on the front porch watching Chelsea's house. Her dad and brother Bob were loading up the car. And a car trailer.
Chelsea was leaving for college Up North.
John just sat there quiet. He did not say a word. He had called me over about an hour before hand.
I just looked at his mother's flowers and the cars sometimes driving by.
It was getting close to dark when she finally came out. But not her mother. She looked real nice, wearing all pink.
She was up to the car when she looked over. She just stopped, her hand on the door. She waved.
"I am going now. Bye, John," she yelled.
He sat there in that lawn chair, all slouched. He raised a lazy arm from his black t-shirt and waved.
And she just stood there.
Man, I am telling you it was a lifetime. Her hand just stayed on that door and she just looked at him.
And my buddy just sat there, still slouched.
So she just eventually got in the car.
What else could she do?
I had known all along she loved him, too.
They drove passed us and she had her head out the window. She smiled her big smile and waved, anyway.
And we just still both sat there. She probably felt like an idiot.
After five minutes, I spoke up.
"You should have told her, John."
He did not look at me, just raised the same arm he had waved at her with and shook his head.
"Let's just go watch TV," he said.
My buddy never did much like to talk.

Old Memories

I had the best neighbors of my entire life when I lived on a street over a few from where I do now. The whole neighborhood was friendly and most everyone got along.
I lived in a alright looking pink brick two level home. My landlord was great. He let me paint the whole house any way I wanted. He appreciated my colours picks and what I did with the place. He was a painter by trade. He also agreed a new kitchen floor needed to be put in. I said blue would be nice. He took me with him to pick out the floor.
I had lots of room for gardens in my front yard. I had a few things to start with. A huge bush that bloomed yellow flowers and a two hedges on either side of the porch railings. But mostly it was just weeds.
I erected my Canadian flag. Put out my hand-made one of a kind barn mailbox out on the front lawn and set to town on the garden.
It ended up being a pretty colourful garden.
This is how I met Norma. All 78 years old of her. She walked slow. She was skinny. But she had a huge smile. She lived across the road. She had beautiful full, alive gardens everywhere the eye could see trailing through the front yard and leading into the back. She had perennials. I had only planted a few. I was a renter. And annuals are cheaper.
It was one evening I was out watering my flowers when she came over. She talked to me about the flowers.
I really knew nothing. I had planted and hoped. The garden was too colourful and she knew that. But we enjoyed the conversation. I learned a few things.
She left that night and said "Been three years since someone planted a garden here at your place."

Norma had a husband. His name was Ken. He liked his riding lawn mower. He cut his grass a lot. It just never looked cut when he was done. I think he rode it with the blades up for something to do.
He had the nicest lawn on the street though, thick, rich and green. He was proud of it. When I crossed the road for a visit, I always went barefoot.

Norma and Ken liked to drink. A lot. Norma preferred whisky. Ken liked his beer. They would go out early in the morning. They would come home 15 minutes later and carry brown bags and a cardboard box into there home from the trunk of their red Grand Am.
Then they would get back into their car and go grocery shopping.
They were the best drunks ever. Laughing, happy and full of stories. They made me grin.
They sat on their front porch with coffee mugs every night getting right trashed, smiling and waving at all the neighbors and their dogs.

Norma took me into her backyard about halfway through the summer. I had wanted to know what the backyard looked like, but thought it too rude to ask.
It was a magical place.
So alive and large. There was paths that led to garden and more garden. It was a beautiful forest, it looked natural. But not over-grown.
She pointed to things she had been growing for 25 years.
Smack dab in the middle of the backyard was a huge massive Indian tee-pee.
She let me sit in it.

Norma and Ken dressed up for Canada Day. He wore red shorts and a white t-shirt. With a tie. That had little red flags all over it. He also wore socks with sandals.
But Norma. Wow.
She had bright red high heels on. She wore a poodle skirt. That had Canadian flags all over it. (Where does one buy that?) She wore a white t-shirt, a huge clunky red-beaded necklace. And a Bruce Springsteen headband.
With Canadian flags all over it.
They were also drunk by noon that day.

I decided to plant a rock garden on the lawn. It was August. I took my time at the garden place this time. I had found an old antique white metal garden cart in someone's garbage and I had a vision.
It looked pretty damn good that rock garden, by the time I was done. Pinks and whites. And small dabs of purple and green clinging to the rocks. I sat outside late into the evening with it on a lawn chair.

Norma came over the next night while I was watering my new little garden.
She was excited.
"This is nice," she told me.
"I know!" I said to her.
"That is a nice Trailing Petunia you got there, too," she said to me.
"Yeah," I said, looking over at the hanging basket I had also purchased the day before. "I am actually going to hang it over there on the corner of the house."
"Is that so?" she said. "Well I cannot wait until we get back next year to see what you have done with the garden. Can I have that dead geranium? Come on over to my place, too."
I handed her a white hanging basket, all stem and full heads of dead flower turning black and followed her across the road.

Norma and Ken owned a huge motor home. The kind you can drive. We sat on their front porch that night and they told me how they always left for Florida in November. Sometimes they got to see snow before they left, but some years they did not.
They only had one springtime where they had come back and seen snow. A few days after they got a home. A freak snowfall.
They went boondocking in Florida, they said.
What is that? I asked.
"Oh, we just park the home where ever we want until the sheriffs come kick us out. Sometimes it is in parking lots, sometimes in the woods, on the side of old hi-ways."
Apparently, from the way they told it to me, lots of old people do this. They have what you might call 'traveling trailer parks'.
I stayed on the porch getting drunk with them until two in the morning that night, listening to their laughter as they told me all about Florida.
And how to get away with dumping washroom waste.

Norma was over a few weeks later. She pointed to my Trailing Petunia hanging from my house.
"You are doing good with that."
"Yeah," I said. "She is a beauty."
"And pretty high-maintenance," she said. "I have been sitting on my porch for weeks now hoping you would almost kill that thing so I could have it. You get too much sun for it there. But I notice you water it two times a day. Come see your geranium."
I followed her across the road.
There she showed me, still in the white basket thriving brilliant red blooms.
Then she told me how she did it.
I spent a lot of time on their front porch for the rest of summer.

November came and I watched the day they drove away, heading to Florida, hitching their brand new pick-up truck to the back of the motor home. I waved at them.
I watched snow blanket their beautiful gardens and I watched the house lights come on every evening at 7 o'clock.
Their son came over and plowed what needed to be plowed and emptied the mailbox twice a week.

It took me two weekends to plant the garden the following spring. I took my time.
The garden was wonderful. It reminded me of whimsical fall days. I was pretty impressed with myself.
The garden smelt fabulous and my landlord had purchased new wood for it and even put it together in away that made it two-tiered.
My porch was my favorite evening spot.

Norma came over the day after they had arrived back home from Florida.
We sat on my front porch with two coffee mugs full of whiskey while she told me of their adventures in Florida. I showed her my thirty year old cafe kitchen table chairs.
It was late before she got up to go home.
That is when she pointed and smiled at me. "Those geraniums are fabulous. I should learn to keep my big mouth shut."
"I am keeping it all alive this year," I said to her.
"Shitty," she muttered as she slowly moved her 79 year old body down my driveway.
That summer, Norma and Ken spent a lot of nights on my front porch.

Sometimes You Gotta Take Half An Hour...

Today there are four men directing traffic in and out of the dirt roads and parking lot of the Trails End Market just outside of town.
I have never seen this happen before, but Jean assures me this happens upon occasion. I nod back as she tells me. Jean knows these things.
Jim is driving and irritable at the traffic. He does not want to walk for hours just to get to the market.
"Jim, we always pull around back where no one seems to know they can park, anyway. Quit your moaning," Jean says to him and Jim shuts up.
But grins at her when he sees another person pulling out of a spot. "I think today we are going to park up front."
Jean rolls her eyes and Jim nods his shit-eating grin head at her.

Trails End is fabulous. And cheap. It is a large wooden building with two floors. There are large walkways, with vendors on each side of you. The walkways are usually packed and the vendors yell.
"Strawberries! Strawberries! 2 for $5! Come on people! It's deal."
"Sweet corn here!!"
"Best asparagus in town to be found!!!"
My son loves Trails End. He loves to look at all the food, picking out his wish list for the week. There are live animals there. My son pretends he does not know they are there for the purpose of 'real' fresh food. He always picks one animal to spend sometime with.
There is also a huge furniture section. In this section, they have a smaller section filled with paintings and pictures. There are some real gaudy light-up pictures that make sounds like waterfalls or the forest. My son loves them.
I got to tell you. I am not looking forward to visiting my son's first apartment someday.
There is also a little Vietnamese stand that sells spring rolls. And there are a few fabulous chip wagons to choose from. My son likes the spring rolls better.
He is cute to watch at Trails End. We always go with Jean. My son loves Jean. He holds on to the straps of her black purse as we all walk along.
It is a ritual.
And sometimes it is a real nice break for me. Jean lets me lag behind for as long as I want. I will watch my son. Happy to talk to Jean. Or happy to watch everything around him. Then I will look at other things I want to.
Sometimes when we are at Trails End, Jean will not buy mushrooms. This upsets part of the ritual. My son will get mad at her, even though I could not pay him enough to eat a mushroom. At least, not with his knowledge.

Today, Jim and I were lagging behind at the same thing.
"Let's go," Jean says to my son. "Those two are bozos."
He laughs. Jim and I laugh at him.
"Bye, Mom," my son tosses over his shoulder, his hand already wrapped in purse strings. They are heading over to two large doors, further down the walkway.
Jim spots a friend he knows. We make our way over to him, but it is a task. There is more people here then I have ever seen.
You know the kind of crowd. You know other people want to elbow you. You want to elbow some of them back. You watch the people plaster-smiling anyway, through clenched teeth.
I am polite to Jim's friend, but I beg off quick.
I am a girl.
I am here to shop.
There is a path taken at Trails End, so I go off in search of Jean and my son. I head over towards the two large doors.
I start at the meat and work my way pass the mushrooms into the Vachon area and think about buying some. I decide to wait until I catch up with Jean and the kid. He likes to pick out something from there.
I walk pass the baked goods and the pizza. I walk pass the book guy and the quiche guy. I walk pass herbal remedies and notice there is a new man set up in one corner. He has CD's and he is playing the guitar. I stop to listen to him for awhile. I try to appreciate the music my ears are not. I walk pass the fish guy, the calendar and t-shirt guy into the furniture section. pass the carpet section and into the live animal section.
I stop for awhile in the antique garage sale section.
I notice the prices of all the fruits and vegetables as I walk along so I can tell Jean later.
Jean really is a shopping guru. I hardly ever have anything to bring to the plate.

I hear Jean's voice call me while I am looking at the price of apples. I turn and smile.
But there is a look in her eyes.
"You do not have him," her hand comes out.
"What?" I say. Then I look. My son is not with her.
"He is not with Jim?" I ask. I hope.
"No," she says.
"What?" I say.
She looks at me.
"What?" I say, again, louder. "What?"
"When you and Jim walked by us, he saw you and went running towards you...I just thought..."
"What?" I felt panic wash into me, ice cold, burning my arms. "That was 20 minutes ago..."
"I know," says Jean.
I stand there. I look around me at the hundreds of heads I can see, the hundreds of faces and legs. I cannot hear anything and I feel hysteria pulling at me. I feel it trying to drag me in. And I do not know if I want it or not.
Jean's hands are on my shoulders.
"Beth. It is going to be okay," she says, so firm. "You go back this way until you find Jim, I am going this way."
She goes and I stand there nodding.

I turn on my heel and look around. But he is not there like I want him to be. I yell his name. I do not look at people's faces when I do, I am looking lower as I place one foot, one foot, one fucking foot after another down on the dirt path.
I yell his name again and I can feel the hysteria creeping back.
Where is my child.
Who has my child.
My child.

I decide to stop yelling his name. Someone might have him. They might be moving faster because they hear me.
I do not trust my own eyes. I stop to look over what I already have. I do not know if my brain is registering what I am seeing. I feel blind, my mind is racing with too many thoughts, too many sights. And the sights in my mind, too.
None of them are good.
I see Jim.
"Jim, I do not have him."
"Let's go," he says and he moves forward. He moves fast, graceful, with purpose. Jim walks taller than any man I have ever seen. He parts the way for us and does not stumble once along the way amid the packed walkways. I just follow him.
Because I am still blind.
"We have to call the police," I do not even know my own voice.
"No. Wait." he says. He just keeps moving forward.
"He could already be dead," I choke.
I stop moving.
Jim keeps going.
I am totally blind.
But it is so loud.
"Tomatos! A dollar for 4!"
"We got cherries! We got corn! We got peaches!"
My arms are alive with fire, tearing through them down into my stomach. It wants to consume me. I have been holding back letting it.
The murmurs of hundreds rage in my ears, playing warfare, trying to take over my thoughts.
I suddenly know.
I know what it feels like, sitting alive and full and twisting in my bones.
I know what it feels like to want to die.
My child is gone.
I want die.
And that scares me enough.

"You! YOU!" I turn and point at a vendor. I am loud and people stop. I look at her first.
She looks shocked in her blue shirt.
"My son is missing. He is 6."
She starts nodding.
I look to my left. I look at the people.
"He is wearing a red Scooby Doo shirt and blue jean shorts."
I look back at the woman.
"The office. She needs the office," she looks at her son. And he nods, heading towards me.
"He is also," I continue looking over to my other side."...Right there."
And there they are. Jean and my little boy coming towards me.
And I run.

I am holding my son when a gray haired lady walks up and pats my son's head.
"Thank God," she says.
She looks me in the eyes and she means it.
"Thank you," I say.
She nods and walks away.
People smile as we move ourselves out of the middle of the walkway.

"Mom, I wasn't lost," he says, looking at me, kneeling in front of him. "I was looking at the food."
"Weren't you scared?" I ask him.
"No," he says. "Only for a minute and I looked around and then I saw Aunt Jean."
"Oh," I say to him. "I was scared."
"I wasn't," he replies. "I saw some strawberries I want, though."
I stand up and look down at him. I am so proud of him. I admire him. I love him. He was all alone for the first time.
With hundreds of other people.
For half an hour.

"Let's do our shopping now," Jean says and I nod.
"This way," my son points down over to the sets of doors, tugging at Jean's purse strings slightly, marching his skinny little legs forward.
We always start at the meat counter.
It is a ritual.

Eight Years Old

Moving Day

The road was so long and Tommy had seen all the dust clinging to the humid air when it was daylight. It still choked at his lungs, even though he could not see it anymore. He wanted to cough, but he knew it already. It just made his throat feel worse.
They had been driving in the dark forever it seemed.
"Aunt Lynn?" he asked, looking up to her.
"Yeah, baby?" her voice asked back quick. It was so dark he could hardly make out anything besides the flash of white teeth and her curly, dyed blonde hair. Messy. Always messy like Momma's.
"This is really far away," he replied.
"Yeah, baby, I know. But you are gonna like it. It's where your Momma is from, you know?" She paused.
"Well, me too," she added a little laugh.
"I ain't ever even been there before," Tommy grumbled.
Aunt Lynn reached over, laying her arm across the long blue seat and let her fingers drag through his hair.
"I know, baby, I know," she sighed. "We will be there soon."

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," Aunt Lynn's voice ran through his head and he opened his eyes to see where she was.
They were both still in the car.
"Tommy, we are on your new street!" she said. He could see her now, the town was lit. He struggled up and tried to look around. It was hard to grasp an image when nothing made sense to him.
"Where?" he asked.
"Right up here," she pointed. He followed her finger. He could see a large, white moving truck up ahead, but still could not see the house.
He leaned closer to his aunt and peered out her side window.
She pulled up front, on the road of a two floor yellow brick house.
"Are you ready, baby?" she asked looking at him, as she unbuckled her belt.
She turned her head.
"Oh, shit," she said aloud.
Tommy moved his eyes from the house.
That is when he saw him.
Just as Aunt Lynn was pulling away. She did not buckle back up.
"Stop!" he screamed. "Stop, Aunt Lynn! Stop!"
But she did not stop. She just keep driving, mouth drawn, biting down on her lip.
Tommy wanted to hit her. Scratch her. Bite her. His body ached with it. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. He wanted to cry. He wanted to be able to breathe and not be able to, all at the same time.
He said nothing for five minutes. Then he could not just do nothing any longer.
"Aunt Lynn," he hissed, barely hanging on. "Aunt Lynn, you take me back there to see my Dad."

Hello, Clarice

Once upon a time ago, my son ate an ant.
It was pretty gross, I guess, because he never ate another one.
He was 20 months old and the fact someone told him to do it absolved him from murder in my eyes.

6:30 p.m.

"Mom!" my son exclaims, running into the living room in his sandaled feet. "Where is my water bowl?"
"With the outdoor toys, silly," I reply.
"Oh," he utters, as he runs back off. I watch him bring the large blue bowl to the kitchen sink to fill it up.
He brings the full bowl out into the living room, armed, I notice with a blue and red squirt gun.
"There are two earwigs outside," he says, nodding at me.
I guess I am suppose to understand.
"Soooo, you are going to attack?" I ask.
He pulls his little blonde head slightly back and looks at me. Now he shakes his head at me. He sighs.
"I put some ants in here yesterday. They don't really swim well," he says to me, then turns and walks out.
I stand there, a million thoughts racing rapidly through my mind all at once.
Then I roll my eyes.
I could let this whole I-might-be-raising-a-serial-killer thing get to me.
But everyone knows the absolute worse thing you think of never happens.

For Another Dollar A Day

You Could:

1. Play a game of pinball.
2. Make a few phone calls from a pay phone.
3. Buy any shampoo you want in travel size.
4. Or a package of party balloons.
5. Probably get 10 books from a Yard Sale.
6. Pick up a copy of the newspaper.
7. Get your own Kinder Egg and keep the silly toy on your desk to torture children with. Acceptable form of revenge.
8. Give the dollar to your child and watch them go insane in The Dollar Store trying to figure out what to buy. Acceptable form of revenge. They even get something out of the deal.
9. Buy a pretty box of tissue paper.
10. Or some tea-lights for bathtime.
11. Or some Scotch Tape.
12. Slurp up a can of chicken noodle soup. Ew.
13. Or Ravioli. More ew.
14. Or munch on a can of asparagus. Barf.
15. Buy some Cadbury Mini Eggs. Gosh, I miss them.
16. Or a bottle of spring water.
17. Smell up your house with air freshener.
18. Freeze with a blue Mr. Freeze.
19. Get the kitty a can of tuna.
20. Eat an Oh Henry chocolate bar.
21. Or a Snickers.
22. Put a litre of gas in your car.
23. Buy one new oven mitt.
24. And go back to the store the next day for another one.
25. Scratch a lottery ticket.
26. Or open two.
27. Get orange nail polish from the sale rack.
28. Cover your feet in a funky pair of socks from The Dollar Store.
29. Chomp on a package of gum.
30. Or get some from a gumball machine.
31. Or pick the machine that has cheap jewelry in it.
32. Unless you are feeling all rebel and want to get fake tattoo.
33. Or you can even get Spiderman bobbleheads in those machines these days. At Wal-Mart.
34. Drink some milk.
35. Feed four different kids Mr Noodles. Because apparently, kids like Mr. Noodles raw.
36. Get a tube of acrylic paint.
37. Buy two cookies from Tim Hortons.
38. Or one of their Toffee Glazed donuts.
39. Or a Banana Nut Muffin.
40. Arm yourself with a cheap squirt gun.
41. And get some little army men, too.
42. Hell, go for it. You can get a package of farm animals, also.
43. Eat Kraft Dinner. You know you want to.
44. Play a song in a jukebox.
45. Or a game of pool at the bar.
46. Buy some bobby-pins for your hair.
47. Get three bars of Ivory soap for the kids and the company.
48. Buy a flyer swatter for the Flying Things you never kill.
49. Or a lightbulb.
50. Finally purchase your dream car from the Hot Wheels collection.
51. Buy baking soda for the fridge.
52. Tie up your sneakers with some crazy new laces.
53. Eat some french fries from a fast food joint.
54. Better if you can share with someone:)
55. Drink a whole package of Lime Kool-Aid.
56. Glue the money to the floor and watch people try to pick it up.
57. Smoke black licorice cigars.
58. Buy a new pen.
59. Or a package of smiley face stickers.
60. Or an old music cassette.
61. Or a new package of bendy straws.
62. Suck on a bag of sour keys.
63. Or Gummy Bears.
64. Or eat a Tootsie Roll.
65. Or buy a bag of Fun Dip. You only get one flavor now with that awful chalky stick.
66. Plant a package of flower seeds. And have a front yard just like Church Lady's.
67. Buy cheap plastic pink flamingos to put in your garden, too.
68. Get one ticket at The Fair.
69. Purchase a deck of cards.
70. Buy a stamp.
71. Or some clothespins.
72. Or some toothpicks.
73. Ride the horse at the grocery store. If you are brave.
74. Drink a can of cream soda.
75. Pay for a music download.
76. Or get a three-day trail membership at some other kind of websites.
77. Buy a bag of marbles.
78. Feed a parking meter anywhere you want to.
79. Hand out a bag of lollipops.
80. Eat a small bag of Doritos.
81. Have another key cut.
82. Buy some wood glue.
83. Squish some Silly Putty.
84. Crunch on a Granny Smith apple.
85. Buy your favorite scent from the bar bathroom.
86. Maybe then you will need to go back to buy condoms from the bar bathroom.
87. Invest in some sidewalk chalk.
88. Slurp up a Slurpie.
89. Buy your favorite lip balm.
90. Or a new refrigerator magnet.
91. Rent a movie from the variety store.
92. Light up the bathroom with a night light.
93. Or outside with a pumpkin head or skull flashlight. On Sale Now!!!!
94. Feed the birds at the park.
95. Buy candy canes for your Christmas Tree.
96. Drink coffee from somewhere not Tim Hortons.
97. Suck on a package of Lifesavers all day long.
98. Or eat your favorite flavor of yogurt.
99. Get some wonderful dark purple, cheap stinky ass bubble bath.
100. Buy AJAX. I get it for 83 cents.
101. Make your first donation to me.

A Porch Over

Church Lady is nutty. Church Lady lives next door to me. She has five teenagers, six cats and now two dogs.
Church Lady has a garden. I am pretty sure it is all weeds. I am pretty sure of this because none of the stringy green things growing in there is pretty.
She cuts, trims and rolls her lawn as if she has prize-winning flowers to show off, though. Like Better Homes and Gardens might be arriving at any moment for a photo shoot.
I guess Church Lady thinks all those carpets hanging over her porch railing give her home an added touch of warmth.
I think she is secretly jealous of her own Porch Over.
The Anderson's have gigantic sunflowers in their front yard, that are almost as tall as the house.
A big yellow bloom disappears from Mr. Anderson's garden a few times a week.
Church Lady's weeds have only grown halfway up her house.

Sometimes I like to sit out on my porch at night. If I am out around 10 p.m. it will not be too much longer before Church Lady comes outside in her blue dresses.
She will grab her outdoor water hose.
She will water the weeds.
Then she will water her grass.

One night, last month, I was sitting on my porch while Church Lady was watering her grass.
She sprayed three ten year old spanish boys walking by on the sidewalk.
They jumped, looked at each other and began walking faster. Their mouths clamped shut.
I laughed at them.

Every night when Church Lady is done watering her lawn, she will water her driveway like some people do.
When she is done watering her driveway, she will water the road.
I do not mean just to push the leaves down the gutters. She actually waters the road.
Only in front of her home and all the way over to the curb on the other side.

Love Lost Fiction

IF YOU CANNOT DO IT BIG, DO NOT DO IT AT ALL
by Queenie

Chapter One
After Midnight Monday

He sits in his living room with his lights off. He has not slept well lately. He hears traffic outside and his blinds are open. Between headlights and the TV on mute, there is enough light for him to see her phone number on the empty, open cigarette package on his coffee table.
But he had looked it up over a week ago. He really did not have the nerve to call her. Hadn't seen her in years.
But she was all he thought about lately.
He leaned on the arm of his green couch, rubbing his chin, his feet up, staring at his socks.
He did not know how to get rid of the thought of her.

Chapter Two
After Midnight Monday Memories

He remembers the day they went fishing, her refusal to put a worm on a hook. Until she blamed him for her not catching any fish. He watched the disgusted look on her face when she baited one of the little suckers and the I-told-you-so-grin she gave him when she finally caught a fish.
One to small to keep. Or at least, so she said. About all the fish they caught that day.
He remembers the steel grey colour of the lake, turning blue where the sun hit it.

He remembers when she was sick with a cold and he showed up on her doorstep with cough drops, Kleenex and 14 different movies.
She was in her pink nightgown with all the cowheads on it. It made her nose look even redder. She laid with her head in his lap, demanding drinks of orange juice and picking the movies. She was bossy and whiney.
But she smiled a lot.
And he knew enough to bring only movies he liked.

He remembers he got comfortable with her real quick.
He did some stupid things.
She demanded better.
But he was lazy. Then he met Chelsea.

Chapter Three
After Midnight Tuesday

The moon was a large one.
He felt foolish, but he did not know how else to get her out of him. Or if this would even work.
He thought about turning around and driving home, but he had come this far. It had been a four hour drive to her hometown.
A place she visited only occasionally.
He stepped out of his car, grasping the yellow plastic bag from the hardware store.
The air was damp and cool as he climbed.
When he got to the top, he pulled one of the cans of spray paint out of the bag and shook it up.

Chapter Four
Dawn Break

There in dark black; the next day everyone knew. But no one knew who.
Across the water tower, someone had sprayed:

I LOVE SARAH McDONALD

Jimmy, Jimmy

13 Years Old

We met one day in a drug store. The person I was with knew the person he was with. We stood uncomfortable for a few minutes, before we started to talk
Jimmy was Italian and tall, with a scrubbed clean face. He had thick hands and thick shoulders. He also had a cute curly mop of hair and dimpled cheeks when he smiled.
I found out from Jimmy he was 16, lived in a town close by and he had a car.
Jimmy found out from me if I would like to go to the movies with him.
I thought he was beautiful. I said yes.
And we went to the movies. We said good-bye after and I did not think I would be seeing Jimmy anytime soon.

But I did see Jimmy again. The next day. We hung out for the afternoon. We said good-bye.
That night my phone rang. Jimmy had found out my phone number all by himself.
It was unlisted.
So, Jimmy and I started dating.

He always had somewhere he wanted to go. We went to the movies again, to the beach, to parks. He took me to meet his parents.
He came roller skating with me and followed me to all my friend's houses.
One day walking into the mall with a friend, she looked at me and said "Your boyfriend has the cutest ass ever."
He did.

I told my mother about Jimmy. She said no when she found out he drove.
So I just lied about where I was going all the time.

Tammy knew a Madonna song. She played it for me and we giggled.
Tammy loved to dance. She said we should make up moves for the song.
So, we did.
And I tried to do the things she could.
For reasons I still do not know, we performed this little number for him the next day.
I have known all my life I can't dance, so I am pretty sure I did not look cute, but Tammy and I danced that whole song.
And then that boy kissed me.
And Boy, could that boy kiss.
Tammy started dating Jimmy's younger brother that night.
Jimmy gave me his bracelet that night.
It was huge and heavy on my wrist. His name was engraved in it. He wanted to meet my mother. I told him he could not.

Jimmy had the biggest boat of a car. It was old. From the 1960's. It was the pukiest of greens with a metallic glint through out the paint job. Which was original. He was proud of his car. There was no rust on it. It had taken him a few months to find another car like it to replace one of the puke green seats. It was a convertible.
I remember being in the car one sunny fall day, the top down with friends crammed in the backseat. We were on back country roads. Jimmy had to drop off something to his uncle's house.
He parked in the driveway of the little tan brick home and went inside.
I decided it was time to know what it was like to sit behind the wheel of a car. I slid into his seat, looking at all the buttons and switches and pedals. I turned and asked a few questions to one of the guys in the backseat.
Then I pretended I could drive.
The guy told me I could even press the gas pedal if I wanted since the car was off.
So, I did.
I slid back over when Jimmy came out of the house. He slid in and the car would not start.
He was not happy. He glared at me.
He said I had flooded his car pressing the gas pedal!
"Flooded it with what?" I asked.
He looked at me. "Gas!" he yelled.
I looked at him. "Jimmy, I do not even know what kind of car this is."
And we laughed.
Then the car started and we drove away.

Jimmy took me to a dance at his school. He drove me home and we parked in the dark, grassy alley behind my house. And made-out for an hour. His large, thick hands covering my breasts overtop of my clothing.
I walked into my house and my mother grounded me for being out with that boy again. She had seen me. She reminded me I was not allowed to see him.

Jimmy and I continued to see each other. A few weeks later he was in a freak accident in his own driveway and totaled his car. I found out while I was at Tammy's house. Jimmy was okay.
Tammy put on Leader Of The Pack. She said we should make up a new dance. We laughed, rolling on her bed, but never did.
Jimmy and I started to see less of each other.
He called one day and broke-up with me. He felt bad. We did not see each other often enough. He still had not met my mother. He told me I could keep his bracelet.

Tammy was going to see her boyfriend about a week later; when Jimmy was not going to be home, so I tagged along with her.
I went into his bedroom that day and I left his bracelet on his bed. Heavy silver chain against the background of his green blanket, closed in a perfect circle.

Jimmy and I saw each other plenty over the next few years before he went off to college. We always hung out for a few hours.
One time he asked if he could kiss me and I said no.
Another time he asked again and I said yes.
Jimmy slobbered.

Jimmy never ended up being love lost for me, but I have fond memories of the time we spent together.
I saw him two years ago. He had gotten pretty thick around the middle.

The First Chance I Get

Teenagers

Port Dover is about 20 kilometers from my home town. My friends and I all loved Port Dover. There was the beach. The arcade. The boys.
There was a trail along the rail road tracks, leading from Simcoe to Port Dover. The trail even has a name. But I do not know it.
It was a beautiful walk and my friends and I walked that trail, in every type of weather in every season. I never talked much during those few hours, but instead took in everything around me.
I loved the people I was with.
They were perfect moments in time.

We never, ever once walked back home on that trail.
I'd like to do that sometime.

Cropped

We were going to go shopping. A friend and I. She came here and when she did, she opened my front door. Chicky flew out the door.

I suppose is was inevitable. I was tempting fate, letting him have run of the house, spreading his little white wings, dive-bombing everyone who came over.
Chicky liked to tempt fate, too. He would strut across the hardwood floor, puffed out, enticing the cat. Chicky lived through a Curious Cat, a Mind-Controlled Cat, a Vindictive Cat. Chicky just got cockier. He would chirp so loud as he ambled across the floor. Here Kitty, Kitty.
Chicky was one damn brave bird.
Or at least that is how I am going to break it to the kids when they come home Sunday night. I am going to remind them of all the brave little Chicky stories I know. I can add in a few "I Saw With My Own Eyes!" tales.
Then we will have a week of birdie bedtime stories. Chicky in Peru. Chicky in Orlando. Chicky And The Evil Yeti In Antarctica. Chicky Takes Over Egypt On The Head Of A Giant Cat Statue...
My daughter will look at me like I am lying.
And she will be right.
I ran outside after Chicky.
Climbed a tree for Chicky.
Removed two more screens, left my windows open and let in more Flying Things. All for Chicky.
But the last time I saw him, he was getting chased by a brown bird with a large wingspan.
But if I know Chicky...
I hoped you enjoyed your stay.
Good Luck, Stupid.

Punks-In The Middle Of Before The Beginning

Minnie was 14. She liked bright red lipstick and getting high.
She had one joint left. She rolled over on the brown pull-out couch mattress and looked at the clock. 5:30. She sighed.
She wanted to save the joint for after the kids were in bed. She had to baby-sit for her parents that night.
She stretched herself up and off the mattress. She pulled on a pair of blue jeans. She was wearing a long blue t-shirt.

She sat on her front porch of white. The top step. Her mother made her smoke her cigarettes outside. Minnie only did when her mother was home. Her mother wanted her to smoke in the backyard, too.
She saw him a block off riding towards his home. He was on the other side of the road. Her drug dealer.
He noticed her a few moments later.
She noticed he slowed down before he reached her. He looked over at her once as he passed by.
She watched him make a sudden turn, riding up the small grassy hill on The Marshall's front yard. He looked back the way he had come, stopped at the top. One sharp white sneakered foot on the ground.
She watched him decide.
He rode down the hill, then went back the way he had come.
He looked at her twice.

She looked up ten minutes later, and there he was heading back from where ever he went. This time on her side of the road.
When he reached the edge of her property, she looked up at him, stood and went into her house.
To smoke a joint.

Minnie threw on her black sweater and running shoes. And lipstick.
"Mom," she yelled, from the front door. "I am going over to Krystal's house to get my Led Zeppelin CD and then to the store for some chips and stuff."
"Okay, Dear," her mother poked her head out of the kitchen, to look at her. " We are leaving in an hour."
Minnie opened the screen door and stepped out.

Happy Birthday

She cut the engine and looked out at the big grey building, so well lit in the night. She trailed her eyes to her car's dash and read the green lights. 1:13 a.m. She tucked a lock of curly black hair back behind her ear.
She finally looked over beside her. Finally gained enough nerve to look at him.
Tommy stared straight ahead, a dark blue blanket wrapped around him. The collar of his brown and yellow Alligator shirt stuck out, bare legs and dirty feet, too.
His eyes are opened, but they are empty. There is no thought, no feeling coming from him.
It scared her.
She did not know what to do.
"Tommy," she sighed. "Tommy..."
And Tommy just continued staring ahead.
"I wish I did not have to bring you here," she tried.
Nothing.
And that is what she knew.
That is what everyone knew.
Not one word from the boy.
Not one word from his mother, except for the call to come.
Just silent blank faces.
She had stopped an Officer from putting up the yellow tape until she had pulled away with Tommy.

August Fourth

Today the place where I go Everyday decided I was going to take a little field trip. This happens now and then. It is nice to shake things up a bit.
Except for today Somebody wants me to go visit the manager of the child care department in our local Welfare offices.
I do not really want to go there. I have been there before.
Somebody does not care.

I walk into the mock plush offices of the Welfare Department, handsome in the green and white and wood colour scheme. Through the heavy, thick oak doors, you can see a wall of plastic. Five windows offering help.
There are two areas where you can wait with your number in hand. One filled with chairs on white tiled flooring. The other filled with chairs on thick green carpeting.
The carpet is pretty dirty.
I go up to one of the five plastic windows and let a older woman know I am here. Her smile is warm for me. She tells me to take a seat and I will be called shortly.
I smile back and turn away. I do not take a seat.

I watch the teenaged punks, in baggy boy clothes. Barely-there girl clothes. They are pissy and obnoxious with the where is the money you owe me attitudes. Young couples. Finding out living together is not easy. There is already a certain hardness in their eyes. And so much fucking pride.
There is men in dirty jeans and work boots, discovering it was not a good idea to take that year vacation they believed they once deserved, now that their Unemployment Benefits have run out. They are restless, moving hands, legs, feet. Walking. Then sitting. Walking.
There is single mothers, disgraced with eyes cast downwards. Short clipped sentences are issued to their children. The younger ones run from seat to seat, laughing, care-free. The older ones sit quietly in the green seats, their eyes full of their mothers' shame and a defiance they call their own.
There are the smartly dressed. Like it is just another day at the office. Some of them have their mortgage papers in hand, drawn into tight white fists. They stare at the children with the juice-stained faces running, glad they did not have to bring their own.
There are the people from other countries. They sit with there little number in hand, staring intently at the big red numbers blinking on the wall. They do not know the English word for the number they hold. Some are thinking a full belly Everyday is not worth knowing nothing about where they are now. Some just burn, wanting something, anything from home.
And there are the lifers. Hair full of split-ends; white, dirty cracked sneakers. But even some of them still have it.
It is alive in the room. Not as alive as the contempt, but it is there. Fight.
I wish I was The Hand of God so I could pick just a few, offer them what they need to feel whole again.
But I cannot.
So I stand there and I smile at Everyone, until my name is called. Some smiles meaning more than others.

Roadtrip!

We left yesterday at three in the afternoon and I have been home for an hour. The kids are blissfully playing at the school with other blissful children and have not even stepped a foot in our home since we arrived back. I have at least another hour to myself.
I suddenly want out of my clothes. I need a pair of shorts. I travel down the hallway passing the bathroom, over into my room.
The closet door is open and there are some clothes outside of it on the floor. One hanger lays beside a red sweater. There is a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle on the floor, too. It is Michelangelo.
The Hypochondriac's Guide To Life. And Death by Gene Weingarten is sprawled across a Jean M. Auel novel. Which are both sprawled across my un-made bed.
I grab some shorts and make a path to the bathroom. There is a hat, blue pajama bottoms, a pillow and part of Monday's paper in the hallway. I only wonder why I had not noticed this when I had first blazed a trail to the bedroom, now while I am writing this.
I sigh when I arrive in the bathroom. I have not been here in awhile.
There are two towels on the floor, one sprawled and dry, one balled up and still...damp. There is a book on the floor by the bathtub. There are nail clippers, a bottle of tylenol and green hair gel all out on the counter. The soap is in the sink.
I pull a u-turn and head for the living room.
I cannot believe the things I end up seeing!
There are clean clothes and lots of them. They are on the loveseat and the floor. There is a book on my coffee table. One green marker, one black pen and four crayons are beside it. The orange one is broken. The main attraction though is a two- foot replica of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, smack dab in the centre of the table.
There is a pair of red shorts folded on the back of the couch next to an opened Steinbeck novel.
A picture is knocked over on my borrowed oval table.
Oh!
My computer desk. Two brown cups. Of coffee from stores. Yeah...and a blue coffee mug behind them.
There is also two receipts. One from a drug store. One with 25 cents of Canadian Tire money beside it. Also included was my favorite John Irving novel and my big copy of The Lord Of The Rings.
And a package of Magic Grow Ancient Animals. Just Add Water!!!!
I turn slowly taking it all in.
There is a comforter folded neatly beneath the coffee table. But my couch blankets are askew.
Oh, but there is the four bags our Roadtrip had required, stacked neatly in the corner by the birdcage.
I look at the bird and I want to blame him.
I see the cat and her belly all lolling, stretched on my hardwood floor basking in the sun and I want to blame her.
There is no freaking way I am going into the kitchen. I shake my head.
Did you have a Mensa party while I was gone? I ask The Voice.
Silence. That is all I hear.
I cannot leave you home alone for one night, can I? I say, heading back the way I had came.
Towards the bathroom. I am going to have a bath.
Did you get the shampoo on your little Roadtrip? asks The Voice.
I pause briefly before slamming the bathroom door.
I am going to light candles and a pretty good book got left in here, eh? I let The Voice know.

THE END

The Body

Ten Years Old

I do not know the reason for the mid-afternoon bath, but Mom has surely threw in the bubble bath to entice me.
The bathroom was creams and dark browns. There was a large cupboard built into the wall. Inside the cupboard was nail polish writing I had done when I was 7. The nail polish was red and came from my Cinderella beauty set.
I am laying back in the tub; Mom had said I could take my time. The dark brown window blind is drawn down, but it moves in the breeze. Thwack, thwack against the window sill. Bursts of sunshine and green pour through every time the blind draws itself from the wall. The breeze is nice on my wet body.
I hear Mom on the phone and know she is running next door to Grandma's house before she pokes her head in the door to let me know. Her hair is starting to grey again.
"I will close up the big door," she says.
I shrug my shoulders.
"Okay."

I hear my little brother's running footsteps coming into the house. It has been five minutes since Mom has left.
He bangs on the door.
"Gotta pee," he yells.
I draw the shower curtain.
"Okay," I say, peeking out.
He comes in. He is a curly-haired mess.
Then he starts to laugh. His stupid half big, half little teeth grin is all I can see.
It happens so fast. The shower curtain yanking open. The blind going up. Albino staring through the window at me.
"You fucking assholes," I scream, throwing back the curtain, as Mikey runs from the bathroom. I hear the big door close and I jump out of the tub, grabbing a towel.

I pick up the black phone hanging on the kitchen wall and I spin the phone number to Grandma's house.
"Hello," she picks on the third ring.
"Grandmaaaaaa," I wail, water dripping, forming a small puddle around my feet.

I am standing behind my mother in the dusty driveway of Albino's red house. Albino's father is dirty and in a yellow shirt, un-buttoned all the way.
He was sweating to begin with.
It gets worse as his face gets redder. His shoulders hunch in anger. He points his thick finger.
Then he turns, marching his squat body towards the front door. He is taking off his belt.

Albino and I secretly held hands for the rest of the summer.

Keine Ahnung!

There is nothing to be said in a moment like this.
Instead she listens to his breath and lets her fingers sift through the chalky, jagged stone covering the ground. She stares into the darkness straight ahead, intent.
She can see no reason to fight him when he suddenly scrambles and grabs her. He twists her body quickly, locking her arms with his biceps. She can feel the sweat of him when he breathes on her neck.
The arms around her are more of a comfort to her and she thinks he smells nice. Dank and warm, like a cellar.
His hands clasp onto the front of her body, large thins fingers sliding down her looking for uniform. They still suddenly upon her breasts.
There is nothing to be said in a moment like this.
His hands remain on her breasts, longer than they should have, but without intention. He draws back, shuffling away from her.
She reaches up in the dark with her left hand, sliding her fingers across her breasts. Her nipples are erect.
"You should not be out," he says, harshly.

The Best Part Of My Day

Three kids with the occasional scream but it comes from the back yard.
Amber is over and we are stretched beneath the tree in my front yard, taking advantage of moving leaves and shade. Eric sits behind her.
Blowing Kisses In The Wind-Paula Abdul is blaring through my living room windows.
They are teasing me because of this.
"Keanu Reeves was in the video," I say.
"Yeah, that was a pretty good video," admits Eric.
The teasing stops.
"Who is that?" Amber asks, pointing towards my driveway.
I turn and look. A grey car is pulling in.
"Brenda," I smile. "You guys are going to love her."

Facials

I woke-up one morning and it was a pretty average morning around here. I had been making a slow but steady crawl towards my coffee maker, the cartoons were already on and a kid asked if they could please have Mr. Noodles for breakfast.
"Maybe if it was a Saturday," I said.
Disappointment stomped her little feet on her way back to the living room. She made sure I heard her sigh. I rolled my eyes.
Such attitude from 9.
I poked my head in the living room. "Waffles it is."
"Yum," said my son.
"Fine," said my daughter, as she uncrossed her arms.

Waffles and coffee were ready at the same time that morning. I grabbed the milk from the refrigerator for my coffee. "Would you like ketchup for your waffles this morning?" I asked my daughter.
She looked at me seriously, "No, not today, Mom."
That is when I noticed I was pouring lumps into my coffee.
Now, I had noticed for the past few days things had been a bit warmer than usual in the fridge, but I blamed it on the heat.
I turned up the thermostat and went about my day; and drank my coffee with only sugar that morning.

That night was no better. My fridge had not gotten cooler. And the stuff in the freezer was starting to soften.
I moved all the fun food downstairs to the basement freezer. I moved the stuff from the refrigerator in to the freezer. The stuff I could still move.
I paused for a quick moment with the new jar of Miracle Whip. I sighed and threw it into a trash bag. I love Miracle Whip. But not enough to die for it.

And the whole using the freezer as my refrigerator worked out real well. Sure, it's a little less room, but the milk is cold. I have no fear of any food growing green fuzzy things.
It has worked out so well, we have been living out of the freezer for almost two weeks now.
I really got to get out to price some refrigerators.
But I am not quite sure I am ready to do that yet.
You see, all the fun food is down in my basement. I can be real lazy.
I have lost 5 pounds.
Sigh.
Sometimes I can be such a girl.