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

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

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.

 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