Author Archives: rdgirvan

Story 10/52: Malpractice

Image

Reply

honda (4)

Malpractice © 2018 R.D. Girvan

I bounced down that slope as though fleeing for my life, my car bottoming out on the hummock that split the deeply-etched driveway.

Frank had told me it was over two miles long, his road, and it hadn’t been plowed properly since the County had installed GPS trackers on their equipment and started charging folks for the grader. He wasn’t about to pay for crews to come out and take care of it.  It was their road.
If you looked on a map, you could see a little dotted line that cut clean across his property, and that was the County’s road allowance. They stopped maintaining it, he said, when he fenced in his entire section of land. He said they claimed he blocked their way and denied access to other residents. He said no one should be using the road anyhow, it led right past his house to the lake and Devil’s Lake had been in his family for generations. Sometimes, he sounded almost reasonable.

From the top of the hill, I could see that the gates were now shut, and as I bounced closer, something glinted sullenly in the tepid sunlight: fresh chain joining the two rusted cattle gates. I would have to ram them. In a Civic, no less.

***

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any previous publication or posting of the entries of any kind, even on a blog.

If you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you. Also, I could add you to an email list of those who want the whole shebang automatically sent to their inbox. Unfortunately, you will never, ever, be able to unsubscribe from the email list, mwahahaha! Kidding, of course.

Best always, RDG

(Never!!!)

 

Powerful Work by Guest Writer Zakk Goertzen: Words are not Enough

Image

2

Zakk

©2018 Zakk Goertzen

Words Are Not Enough

Words are not enough to describe how I feel,
To always place second and never speel.
Over and over, silver I receive,
Never earning gold, it’s hard to believe.
Not going up or down but staying the same,
Only seeing myself as the one to blame.
Words can’t describe it, they can’t even start,
The feeling it stimulates just tears me apart.
Some people say that second is just the first loser,
Personally,
It feels like a fatal abuser.
There’s always someone that has been a bit better,
Each time, my soul feels a little deader.
Words are not enough to explain what’s in my head,
Every time I place second,
The pain I must dread.

Every time I place second,
The pain goes unsaid.

 

 

 

 

Story 9/52: Not Much to Look At

Image

3

yacht

Not Much to Look At: © R.D. Girvan

 

Patrick heard her coming, heels chocking on the weathered boards of the dock, long before he saw her. He adjusted the bumper on his rented yacht and went over to say ‘hello.’ This section of the Marina was only for owners; he was squatting. Could only help, to make a new friend.

“Hello,” he said, and introduced himself.

“Hi Patrick,” she said, setting down a heavy bag to shake his hand. “I’m Michelle.”

Patrick had heard that the Michelle Colmstock moored down this end. Was it possible that this was her? The Member of the Marina’s Board Michelle, the owner’s sister Michelle, the youngest heir of the Stockyard Distillery Michelle – could this be that Michelle, looking up at him right now?

“Heading out for a sail?” he asked. Then, to divert attention from his clumsy attempt at conversation (We’re on a dock, dummy, he thought, chances are good she is going out), he quickly followed up with, “Which one’s yours?”

***

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any publication of any kind, even on a wee blog like mine. So if you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you.

Best always, RDG

 

Story 8/52: 13 Heros

Image

6
not home
13 Heros: © 2018 RD Girvan

 

What he doesn’t want is to get caught. Last Halloween he had almost been caught – that had been no fun, no fun at all. It was supposed to be “trick or treat,” not “trick, treat and trial.”

He tapped powder into the last of the tubes and added it to the bouquet of pixie sticks that bristled out of the grinning plastic pumpkin. He cleaned up, careful not to breathe in any of the residue.

Dominic worked through his departure checklist, wiping down the last few surfaces he may have touched, loading his gear, crossing through the garage/kitchen door repeatedly, the heavy whump-sigh of the pneumatic door punctuating his work. He triple-checked the house for personal belongings, then peeled off the plastic gloves that had come in the box of hair dye.

He looked around one last time. He would miss this house, he thought.  It had been a good 12 months, living here.  The neighbourhood met his requirements perfectly: a nice little suburb with nice little houses full of tame, nice little “sheeple.” All with easy access to a major Interstate Highway, so within 8 minutes, Dominic could be heading anywhere. Unless he was caught, of course.

…

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any publication of any kind, even on a baby blog like mine. So if you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you.

Best always, RDG

 

 

Story 7/52: Go Fast, Turn Left

Image

6

 

Winter Road (3)
Go Fast, Turn Left: © 2018 R.D. Girvan     Photo credit: © 2018 RD Girvan

 

Ryan geared down as they approached the corner and the engine growled.

His back tires slid across an icy patch before biting into bare tarmac. Automatically correcting, Ryan looked over at his daughter. Tabitha was sleeping.

He felt around for his phone. Tabby, with the conviction of a teen raised on public service announcements, had insisted that he stash his cell out of reach while driving. He felt for it now, using his knee to keep the car steady as he fished it out. Thing is, when you’re driving a Triumph TR6, even the back seat is within arms’ reach.

Ryan grabbed the phone and, checking to make sure she was still asleep, opened it up. A red star lit up his text icon, so he opened that, too.

*

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers (both of you! haha), Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any publication of any kind, even on a baby blog like mine. So if you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you.

Best always, RDG

 

 

 

 

 

Story 6/52 is a poem: Better Not

Posted on by
2

 

 

Frazzled

Artwork Credit:  Pastel on Paper by Emma Jorgensen
Better Not©2017 RD Girvan

 

Better Not

Her face has changed, from then ’til now,

become a worried, hurried brow;

 

From “Of course, let’s!” to “No, not yet,”

her ‘fun’ is simply fresh regret.

 

Red tape delays, plans split and fray,

bright joy, deferred, turns blue;

 

Her bed is made, her bills are paid;

now Income Tax is due.

 

Story 5/52: Mrs. Rose Edwards

Image

6
Wild Rose[674]Photo ©Natashia Goertzen, Natashia’s Photos
Mrs. Rose Edwards ©2018 RD Girvan

That door wasn’t there yesterday, was it? I may be all muddled again, but I think not… These new buildings do mix me up. I don’t have any streetlights, any street signs – any signposts – any – any – signs upon my door, so it can be difficult to tell. Which is the way out, and which is the way home.
I can find my way to luncheon, but when it’s time to refund my room, I simply can’t renegotiate, I can’t return. Anyway, lunch was nice, delicious. A new man joined us, sat down right beside me. Quite forward! The lady across the table from me knew him well, but he only had eyes for me. His wedding band was rather like mine, too, but when I pointed out that we matched, he made an odd sort of snuggling – spooning – sobbing noise and turned away from me. He tried to make up for his rudeness later by escorting me to my room, but still, I was slightly annoyed.
I could have an assistant, like that nice sad man. Perhaps a desk – an armoire – a secretary – yes! a secretary, to help me along. We could have tea, they could gently show me the way so I could remember. Then I could keep, from one day to the next, my reason, my raison d’etre, my residence – my home. Yes, my home.
Maybe I could find a nice picture that I liked a great deal and put it on my door. Then, when I am worrying – hurrying – scurrying along all the hallways, I could see the sign and know, this is it, this is my room.
Like this photograph here, on this door. This forget-me-not – this mum – this rose. Yes, a rose! My rose.

Story 4/52: Reunited

Image

Reply

natashia flower window pic2Photo by: Natashia Goertzen, Natashia’s Photos

Reunited © 2018 R.D. Girvan

 

She twisted her ankle, stumbled off the path and fell upon the fence, jack-knifed over the pickets. The fence, its posts rotted from too much rain and not enough maintenance, wobbled beneath her weight, wowing back and forth.

Alarmed, Pete watched from his kitchen window. Sarah stood up and steadied herself, pale fingers gleaming white against weathered wood. He waited for blood to bloom on her ripped white shirt.  He could see the torn fabric, even from that distance, and he held his breath, hoping she could make it into the house by herself. He couldn’t risk touching her.

…

Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers (both of you! haha), Rhea here.

I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any publication of any kind, even on a baby blog like mine. So if you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you.

Best always, RDG

 

Story 3/52: Cheers, Darling!

Posted on by
3

sphynx-clipart-3The writing prompt was: Write about your Muse.

Cheers, Darling © 2018 R.D. Girvan

My muse has a great sense of humour.  She is quick to laugh and giggle, and if your joke surprises her, she may even snort. She loves puns and verbal dueling, self-deprecating humour and wit both wry and dry.

She is stubborn, determined, goes over/under/through obstacles to get where she is going. Once she sets her teeth into something she will not relinquish it. She is sort of like a terrier, in those ways. Or a tank.

She is kind and loyal, sees the best in people and promptly forgets when others disappoint. She prefers to live and let live, but knows that one can’t always do that. She protects me, like a best friend, a big sister, a sphinx.

Vaguely British, she runs her hand through mostly silver hair, looks over her glasses at me and says things like, “To master anything, darling, one must do it for 10,000 hours.  So let’s go!” She has a variety of surprisingly motivational sayings, most of which boil down to: don’t complain – don’t waste time – don’t give up.

She has her 10,000 hours already.  She came to the writing life late in hers, but refuses to bemoan that. She is a fantastic writer. Something about her work makes it impossible to stop reading it. She loves to reveal unspeakable truths, by degrees. She writes clearly, honestly. Bravely.

She leads the way with hindsight’s 20/20 vision, towards my future – her past. She is shimmering her way into shining existence with every word I write, every story I finish, every hour I add towards my 10,000. My imaginings, my fictions, are turning her into non-fiction. Is that irony? She would know.

My muse and I are the same girl, separated by a few years, so of course, we share a birthday. Every December 31st I like to drink to her health. Cheers, darling!

 

 

 

Guest Writer: Picnic in Winter

Posted on by
1

sgpl

I love this piece from one of our Wednesday Night Writers. Thanks for letting me post it, David! Picnic in Winter ©2016 David Routledge

By David Routledge

The vicissitudes of fatherhood: no one can catalogue them all, and certainly not in advance. One does better in hindsight. Oblivious at the time, I inflicted one of these on my Dad when I was twelve.

Dad had been a boy scout when he was a kid, so he certainly encouraged me to get into scouting. And I’d gone for it, full bore: bought the Baden-Powell scouting book, learned the knots, made a scout staff, made a kerchief toggle, learned Morse code, learned semaphore, learned the scout promise, the scout salute, the scout handshake, yadda yadda.

Except, out in the bush, I was useless. That scouting book, after all, had been written by a Brit. For Brit kids wearing shorts in the gentle Brit climate. Where winter—real winter—lasts only a month or so.

But this was Canada.

Our scout leader scheduled the bring-your-dad cook-out for the North Saskatchewan river valley just before Hallowe’en. We were supposed to do it all for our Dad. He’d watch as we set up the fireplace and made a log stool and a log table, gathered kindling and firewood, lit the fire, got out the pots and fry-pans, and—

Okay, you’re ahead of me. You know by now that of course it snowed the day before, and snowed all night, and tapered off only about noon on the day of the cook-out.

And the temperature dropped to about minus five. Max.

To cancel… ? Or not to cancel…?

Nah! We were tough! We could handle a little snow! The scout troop voted unanimously to go ahead with it.

The dads didn’t get a vote.

For me, of course, it was a disaster. Everything took much longer than I expected. And it got dark so early! In place of a stool Dad settled for a chunk of dead tree I managed to yank out from under the snow. The firewood, too, took quite a while to find and collect. Dry firewood, that is, that would actually burn, what with all the snow I had to get off it. So he waived the requirement for a table—he’d eat with the plate on his lap. “Better get on with cooking supper, David,” he advised with patience. “It’s going to be dark in a few minutes.”

Which turned out to be true. And the fried potatoes—the only thing I managed to produce—didn’t seem to get hot actually, let alone brown, in that frying pan over that open fire. Or the margarine either.

And then the heroism kicked in. He ate every one of those potato slices… well, okay, chunks—frozen, covered in cold margarine, raw—with a smile on his face, proclaiming them to be delicious.

An Academy Award performance. And here I am, sixty-odd years later, finally able to appreciate it.

A disaster, but he made it all right.