Story 7/52: Go Fast, Turn Left

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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

 

 

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

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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!

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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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