Story 11/52: Spring Break

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iced chain link

Dick rubbed the surgical scar that scratched across his chest, straight and true.

Connie kept saying that said he should complete it with a tattoo. “Add some feathers and an arrowhead point,” she said, “like Cupid’s.”

Dick had said, “How do you come up with this shit? Why the hell would I do that?”

Their son Brad had crowed, “Mom, Dad doesn’t get the point!” and the two of them laughed over the stupid pun. Both kids had turned out weird, like her. Weird and weak.
Privately, though, Dick was already considering a tattoo. All the old guys were getting them, using morbid humour to whistle past their fears. Anything to appear in control. Calm, cool and collected, as they used to say in High School. Large and in charge. Chill.

His friend Joe had a tattoo of a zipper, teeth half-open around shiny scar tissue, marking where doctors would slice into his chest to access his pacemaker batteries.  Pretty cool. Not as good as the art Dick wanted, of a skeletal hand flipping the bird, but still cool. Of course, thanks to Connie, he never would receive the benefit of having his batteries replaced regularly with fresh, brand new models. He was stuck with these rechargeable ones. For the rest of his life.

***

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

PS: Never!!!

 

 

Story 10/52: Malpractice

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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 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.