Author Archives: RD Girvan

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About RD Girvan

I love writing unsettling fiction. Enjoy!

Story 5/52: Mrs. Rose Edwards

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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

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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!

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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

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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.

 

Story 2/52: Taking Care

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cb radio

 CB radio on the dashboard. (Photo: ^ Missi ^/flickr)
Taking Care ©2018 R.D. Girvan

I could see him out there, hovering. Ostensibly sweeping his driveway, my neighbour Louis was waiting for me to notice him.  I walked through the pantry and opened the overhead garage door to coax him closer.

While worth it, being friends with Louis did take a bit of getting used to.  He had spent his life long-distance trucking, and had never been home long enough to interact deeply with others.  No social media was there to create a portable network of buddies; most of his conversations had been punctuated by “breaker, breaker.” He had come of age seeing the world through the virtual bubble of his cab as if in amber. He meshed with the families our young bedroom community about as well as a black-and-white photo would sync with streaming video.

…

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 1 of 52: Role Model

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barn
Role Model © 2018 R.D. Girvan

 

The horses died first, then the donkey. Well technically, the neighbors died first, followed by their dog. Then the horses and the donkey.

Mike, digging a trench with the backhoe, tried to make himself laugh so he wouldn’t cry. Should have called that stupid donkey ‘Dug’ instead of ‘Doug’, he thought,  L – O – fucking – L. 

He scooped a fresh bucket of dirt, backhoe lurching as the track caught the edge of the pit. Through the dusty windshield, he could see his wife stagger across the yard. His laugh crumpled up and died in his throat.

…

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

 

 

Guest Writer: From Santa’s Chair

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sgpl

I am a member of the Write Night Writers, who gather weekly at Spruce Grove Public Library.  I am hoping to show off their work here, as well, so here is a festive piece from Greg Turlock.  (Thank you for letting me post it, Greg!) From Santa’s Chair ©2016 Greg Turlock.

From Santa’s Chair – a True Story – Merry Christmas!

I used to be Santa, at a mall years ago

What a fond memory, I cherish it so

One chilly night, as I sat in my chair

A sweet little girl, had a question to share

 

“Santa, I’ve been good, tried not to be bad”

“But I need your help, for my mom and my dad”

“I don’t want a present, but please can you”

“Help mom and dad get back together, Is that something you do?”

 

How shocked I was, I babbled and tried, To give words of comfort, but inside I cried

“Santa will try, to bring love and care, To your dear parents, to cherish and share”

“So have a Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year”,

She hugged me and smiled, But left me a tear

 

Not her tear, but mine, it rolled down my cheek

Her gift was special, Her gift was unique

She gave to me, so I could give to her,

And although this memory, is only a blur

 

I was proud to be Santa, for her on that night

I hoped my Santa, did what was right

The stars lit the sky, on that night long ago

The lonely drive home, seemed shorter you know

 

I found Christmas that night, I hope you do too

Merry Christmas to all, Merry Christmas to you

 

Ho Ho Ho

Greg Turlock

Freakin’ Awesome Album to Spend Your Gift Cards on: Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats

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I discovered some great music recently: the self-titled album by Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats.

The first time I heard “S.O.B.” (you know the one, it’s not spelled out in the song, goes, “Son of a *itch! Get me a drink!”) on CBC Radio 2, I was galvanized by it, consumed. I wanted to hear it again; I actually reached for the dash, trying to replay the song. (My car doesn’t do that and we don’t have satellite radio…)

S.O.B. was so good that I ordered the disk, and WOW! The tracks are fantastic blues-y, rock-y songs that demand – and reward – your attention. You can hear hints of Bruce Springsteen and Van Morrison, but while other artists may have provided inspiration, Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats have their own sound.  Also, the tracks are all very different from each other, the songs are not samey-samey. The rest of the disk proves it: these guys are anything but one-hit wonders.

I love the music but I really respond to the words. Their lyrics feel vulnerable without wimpiness and honest without drama. They sound like a bunch of big strong men who hurt sometimes but still can rock your World.

 

52 Story Challenge

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“Write a short story every week,” Ray Bradbury said, “It’s not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.”

I hope he was right. My schedule means that my 52 stories will take more than one year – no matter.  I’m pretty sure he would have said something like, “Just jump, already.” Here goes!

PS: RIP Mr. Bradbury

 

I’m Ba-aack… at School

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Uoft cont studies

Last year, I started my Creative Writing Certificate at University of Toronto School of Continuing Studies.  It is a 7-part program, with 6 courses and a Final Project consisting of a novel manuscript.   They offer lots of on-campus classes, but most of the courses are provided online as well.

My goals for the program are (a) to learn more about how to write; and (b) to develop the habit of writing daily. I noticed that the kids need me less all the time, and decided to position myself accordingly. The plan is that my increased free time will coincide with an increase in my skills and training.

It’s really working – at the time of this post, I will have finished three of my six courses.  I am learning so much! The instructors have been terrific, the work is pure thought-provoking fun and I love the deadlines. I haven’t made it to writing every day yet, but I am writing most days, so getting there.

And, I have even managed to refrain from posting comments on the Discussion Board about how it used to be called “distance learning” and you had to mail your assignments in.