On A Personal Note

Thank you...

Love Lost Fiction

MISTLETOE
By Queenie

I Saw You With Your Hands
1999

Tommy saw her. The snow danced in front of him, fat and plenty and heavy from the night sky; shimmering in the short glow of the streetlights. The headlights. Dim flashes of the seasons colours, blinking, muted in Tommy's background. The snow made the night awash with a cold brightness, blindly blocking views of the life around him. The Christmas shoppers and their loud packages. He could hear last minute swearing underneath breath.
But he saw her. With him. And he was trying to grab her purse. Tommy was wearing his Reeboks. And so he stopped him.

Above Your Head
2000

They were walking and almost to Tommy's car.
“You did not seem to like the show,” Tommy bit the side of his mouth and looked at her.
She looked up at him surprised, “No, I did.”
“Are you sure?” he said. “I thought about it after I had the tickets. You work down here. You probably see all these shows whenever you want.”
She laughed. He had no idea. “I have never had the chance to see it since I have come to New York. And it is closing soon."
"So, you had a good time, then?" he asked.
She stopped walking, as they reached the car and laughed at him. "I said so, didn't I?"
He opened the door of his Altima for her, for Tommy was always a gentleman. He opened it with a gallant swing of his arm. "Then we shall go every year, Madam."
Sarah moved herself into the car and Tommy closed the door, cutting across the front end of the car, sliding and using his arms for balance, to get to the drivers side.


Spinning Around
2001

It was late and there was pounding at her front door.
She undid her chain lock and poked her head out into the hallway. Brown carpets.
She sighed with relief, exasperation, then hissed, “Jesus Christ, Tommy. Why are you here now? The show was hours ago.”
But she really wanted to ask why he was drunk.
Tommy leaned into her doorway, pointed a finger around. Loose and whole arm involved. “It is very late.” His point landed on her. He was loud.
“Just get your own self in here, Tommy,” she said, turning around; leaving the door open behind her.
He was quiet closing the door, quiet taking off his soaked coat. His squeaky shoes.
“Miranda broke up with me,” he said, matter of a fact, walking into her living room.
“Oh, Tommy,” she turned back towards him and sighed.
Tommy shrugged his shoulders; wearing a white ribbed t-shirt.
He pretended to act tough.
"I don't care," he said.

Trying Not To Look Down
2002

They were sitting in a corner booth, with leather black seats. Mostly murmers and soft piano music. It was late, after the show.
She watched him in his grey suit, sitting across from her and wanted to shake her head. She never understood why Tommy insisted on drinking red wine.
Sometimes, when she looked at him, she wondered if he should star in a soap opera.
“How’s Bill?” he asked, suddenly; politely.
Crash.
A waiter. Across the room, going to his knees to pick up glass. White shirt. Red tie. And it was surreal to watch Tommy turn to stare, and then crank his neck back to her and his thumb towards the waiter with a wicked smile.
Maybe Tommy should be in the movies, the thought spun into her head, despite the other thoughts his question had brought her.
And so she spit it out fast and quiet. “Billy asked me to marry him."
He turned right back around.
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I told him no.”

But You Did
2003

“God,” said Deborah, as they walked down the sidewalk. Coat cuff to eyes, and dabbing. “That was fucking fabulous.”
“Yeah, it really was,” she said, laughing.
“How many times have you seen it now?” Deborah asked.
“This was my first time,” she said.
“Fuck off,” Deborah smacked Sarah in the arm.
“I have no time to spend watching Fairy Tales. Work is a bitch.”
“Yeah, right,” shot back Deborah, rolling her eyes. “You are a star.”
“I am glad you came with me tonight, Deborah,” Sarah said, suddenly.
And Deborah reached for Sarah’s hand, grabbing it, letting her long pink nails curl around, her hand warm. “Oh, honey. You miss Tommy, don’t ya?”
“What-no,” Sarah shook her head and smiled. “He is somewhere much sunnier than this right now.”
“Where?”
And Sarah smiled bigger. “Hollywood, man.”
“You got to quit calling me that, honey. I am all woman, now. But tell me, tell me, what is that boy in Hollywood for?”

And Fell Hard On The Ground
2004

They were walking back to the car, it was cold. Snow danced like shards of crystal; cutting cheeks. A beautiful evil.
“What will the next few days bring for you, Tommy?” she asked, looking over at him; in his long black coat.
“I am not sure. Janet and I broke up earlier this month…So, the usual round of family, I suppose.” He said. He grinned. “What about you?”
She looked up at him, as they parted to let a mother with stroller by on the sidewalk.
Then she bit her lip and answered, “Billy has been calling lately. The past month. He wants to get together for a few hours Christmas Eve.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
And she tripped suddenly.
And quick, his gloved hands came out and grabbed her wrists, pulling her up.
And close to him.
Looking into each other eyes.
She had no breath in her.
For a second, she could feel the pull from him. She instinctively swallowed her spit and finally let out a small breath of air.
Then took a step back, at the same time he did. He let go of her wrists.
Eyes still held, she took a deeper breath.

Shine

He walked out of the store; his legs alive, as were his steps. The Christmas carols that had been playing inside the store, also greeted him outside; blaring from the white speakers embedded into the green overhang. Dogs barking jingle bells.
“Oh, my, what will you do with all of those?” asked the old lady in the purple coat with brass buttons. She paused; arm reaching for the pet store’s door. She smiled at him, her teeth just starting to gray. Unnatural pink lipstick. She was happy.
He smiled back at her, pausing. His arms full of cage, holding four white rabbits.
“I am working my way up to lambs,” he replied to her and smiled some more.
Her body stopped; stiffened and her face blanched, a small, rosy circle on each cheek.
He did not see the puddle as he continued walking to his car, but his socks felt the water fast, seeping through his sneakers.

He stood at the kitchen table. Silver edge. Coloured top.
The rabbits did not look nervous anymore, sitting in the large silver cage on the floor. The electric carving knife had been running for 2 hours. Six minutes.
It had not bothered him while he had napped on the couch in the next room.
He put on the leather gloves, sitting beside the running knife. Good, old General Electric.
“Hello, bunny,” he said, stooping down and reaching in the cage and knocking over the small green plastic bowl of valerian root tea he had placed in with the rabbits. He used it for anxiety; sometimes drank three mugs in a sitting. He had made it weak for the rabbits, only a minute steeped. They moved fast, away from him. Then he was suddenly holding one. Warm against neck, as he pulled himself up.
taptaptaptaptaptaptap. Heartbeat.
“You are so soft. Nice bunny; soft bunny,” he murmured, turning towards the table. "I would not want to drink blue stuff, either. It is much better green, yes, it is, pretty bunny. Oh, lookie here, little bunny, see what I have made for you?"
He had made the stocks a few weeks before, anchored to plywood. 1/8th of an inch thick. The stocks were fashioned from metal and rubber, unlike the old, wooden ones he had seen on the internet.
He placed the head of the rabbit into the hole and tightened the bands. He thought about choking it to death for a minute. But, he did not. He wondered if this one had drank some of the tea. Only its nose seemed to want to put up a fight.
Reaching for the running knife with one hand, he felt along the lower leg for the proper joint on the rabbit’s lower leg. Arm swung over like a baseball pitcher, but slower. Swish. The grabbing of the blade in the rabbit’s leg; close to his finger. The white handle vibrating, louder.
Bucking at flexible bone.
“Dammit,” he swore, pushing hard to the leg, holding and bearing down with the blade. Labour.
And then through.
Paul put the knife down; held the rabbit's foot. Felt himself pant; the excitement, as he reached for the saltshaker. He kept an eye on the rabbit; head pushed and trapped, as it pulled in the remaining part of leg; close to belly. Paul dropped the foot in the first white box. Not a clean cut like he had hoped for.
Then he moved himself around the table, picking up the knife. He grabbed the rabbit's other leg. And movement. It kicked back. Sudden. Paul slammed his elbow hard down into the rabbits back and cut its other leg off fast, sawed. Snapped. The smell of rabbit shit, seeping into his shirt. He cursed rabbits and their control.
Then loud in his ears, the rabbit grinding its teeth.
And Paul decided to leave it trapped, to die; instead of slitting its throat.
It was how he wanted it.
He looked over the table, down at the cage and the other three rabbits. Their white fur; red eyes. Starting slowly; skittishness. He wondered if they could smell the blood. Or if it was the fear.
He put the foot in a different white box; taking them both into the other room.
At the coffee table, he wrote carefully inside of greeting cards; green and adorned with silver bells.
Best of luck in the New Year.

Read Some...

...Old Stuff

Before Actually

She was determined in her eye.
"You just go on and get. Do what you got to do, Sir," she said, looking up at him; feeling the dust from the dry, empty road, as it swirled around her ankles and up into her skirt.
"Why you gonna be saying that? You want to forget my name already?"
She looked down at her arms; straight and folded hands, before she looked back up to him.
Soft. "I really should be going, too. I said to Esther-."
"What is wrong with you, Woman?" he demanded, throwing his hands to his thighs. “Dob says all is good. He is ready for me.”
"So, then, you have just gone and given-up, have you, William?"
"Aw, Helen, that place ain't opening back up; I have been telling you this," William shook his head. "Damn. You never listen."
"Oh, I listen just fine," she snapped back at him; curling in her nails, barely. Catching dust and air. The trees rustled behind her; up in her ears. She wanted to go before she started crying.
"You can't listen when you are all nattered; talking stupid to me-"
"Oh," she began, then straightened her back sharp; smoothed down the light purple skirt.
"Like I said, Sir, we both best get going."
She took a step forward, before she could think about not doing so again, then she put another foot in front of that one. There was no choice. It was that or feel foolish.
She felt foolish, anyway.
"I want you to come with me. You never heard that yet, Helen. You never heard that yet because I ain't even said it yet. Are you listening, now? Are you listening to me now, Woman?"
He paused.
"I know you want to go there. You always said you wanted to go there. Oh, come on, Helen. Look at me."
Her white toe on a sharp, jagged rock; fought up from the earth. Digging hard, feeling it through the sole of her shoe, she turned.
"You know that I can hear you about as well as you hear me. Same goes for sight. I was enjoying my view when I was walking this way," and she pointed down the road, and then pointed behind him. "You should look out behind you, William."
"What is your problem? What is going on, Helen?” he asked of her.
She looked at him; hand to hip, then arm back down.
"I ain't going with you, Sir," she whispered. "You know I can't."

Punks-A Tuesday

Minnie was 14. She liked bright red lipstick and getting high.
The music was always playing in her room; always barely lit.

let them them leave you up in the air
let them brush your rock and roll hair

They were on the bed. Minnie laying on her side and beside her, Samantha; on her back. Lips soft. Tongues softer. They kissed. It made the breathing seem heavier; almost as loud as the music.
Minnie moved her lazy arm, laying across Samantha's nightgowned stomach and slowly slid her hand upwards.
Samantha breathed even deeper and Minnie kissed her, as her hand reached up to feel nipples hard beaneath the cloth.
Minnie moved her upper body closer to Samantha; pressing her tits to Samantha's body. Rolled Samantha's nipple in her palm.
And Samantha moaned.
Minnie lifted her whole body overtop of Samantha.
"Boys will want to," Minnie reassured her.
Still rubbing the same breast, the same way; Minnie lowered herself onto Samantha.
And she rubbed her body against hers and kissed Samantha harder.

oo when you bite your lip
it's some reaction to love, o-ove, o-ove

Minnie lifted her own nightgown to her waist; she was naked, rubbing herself against the white of Samantha's underwear.


He came back from 3000 miles away from reality. His phone was ringing; on the floor beside the bed. One of those stationary ones; the whole thing lighting up blue with each ring.

it's not the perfume that you wear
it's not the ribbons in your hair

Tommy's radio was loosely playing in the background.
"Hello?" he said into the phone.

The other end of the Morning

This morning my alarm clock did not want to wake up.
Instead of beeping, it said softly, "It is cold, you should go and fix the heater."
I did not want to.
"Stop being lazy," I told it. "You should get up and take a shower."
But my alarm clock ignored me, and sat there glaring with red, tired eyes.

I pulled the covers up close around my neck.
I considered ducking my head under them, and tried it for a minute.
It felt wonderful.
I determined to stay there for hours.

Useless Writings

Today I do not have to go where I go Everyday.
It is pouring rain when my child walks in the door of his school. The sky was nasty, grey, dark.
I hid under the covers until noon.

I watch the sunlight stream through front window; five minutes after 12. I marvel the bluest of skies and puffy white clouds.
Canada has been so colourless lately.
But when I step out my door, the wind wants to knock me over and I want to run in to hide back under my covers.
But I have to pay my rent.
I write on the bus for the first time in a long time.
Lately, I have been having to read, instead.

"Would you like to do your banking online?" the bank teller says, too grandly. I wait for him to sweep his arm in an arc. He grins, and waits for my answer.
I grin back. "No."
"I can get you a password, right now!"
"No, that's okay. I would forget it."
He taps my cable bill.
"It might make you remember other things,' he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I raise my eyebrow at him.
"Shut-up, Steve," I say, and we laugh.
Wet snow is falling on the ground, slick with purpose and a plop as it hits the ground, as I leave the bank.

I see Gord in the grocery store.
His big, big belly. His white, white beard. He looks like a dopey elf.
We meet up at the bus stop, too.
"What are you reading there, Elizabeth?" he asks.
"John Berger. It's all about sight, Gord," I sigh.
"Elizabeth, do you know about existentialism?"
I roll my eyes.
"Boy," I say. "Do I ever."
"I was reading Jean-Paul Sartre..."
"Shut-up, Gord," I say, and we laugh.
The sky is ice grey.

Amber and I listen to the kids scream. And run. And jump.
My son falls and it is seriously the biggest goose egg I have ever seen.
Then Amber and I listen to the kids scream. And run. And jump. Again.
We eat tacos.
We do not shut-up.
We laugh.