Tag: writing

Small Change

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excerpt

The Best of Friends
ALL I KNEW ABOUT ETERNITY in those days came to me through the agency of its little cousin, boredom. It was Friday and it was spring. The big windows on the left side of our second floor classroom had been lifted as far as the old paint in their grooves would allow. All afternoon, an intermittent breeze came through the protective metal grill carrying coal gas and bus fumes and the oddly fishy odour of soap from the Colgate factory down by the river. It wasn’t much, but it was news from the world and I sniffed it with a perverse pleasure.
We weren’t allowed to look outside, but as often as I could I snuck a peek at the vacant lot with its bottle chips, rusty concrete, patches of crabgrass, and minute particles of coal that lay in thin drifts where the wind had blown them from the smoke of locomotives that passed all day on the elevated tracks across the street, beyond the wooden fence of the Delaware-Lackawanna coal yard.
Sister Violeta, with her lugubrious monotone and her black visions of life before death, seemed connected somehow to the nearly purple hills (piles, really) of pea coal, which I had a privileged view of at this height. They looked like black sand blown up into dunes in the desert landscape of an alien planet. I used to imagine she had been hatched there.
Father Brackendorf, who came every Friday to teach us religion, was fond of looking out toward the coal yard and explaining that our souls were like the snow before a train went by. Once we were born, the soot came down. Scrubbing did no good. You had to let confession melt the snow, and let the sin fall to the bottom. (The bottom of what, I wondered). Then a blast of grace would freeze it white again. This is what he was saying now. It made me feel empty and restless. The clock above his head, round and white and edged with black, was soft-clicking back and hard-clicking forward, minute by minute. And then the minute hand hit twelve and it was three o’clock, and we were free.
But there was this debt I owed to Danny Amoroso.
He was three or four years older than we were, but he was slow. And he seemed to enjoy it. Being slow, I mean. He was a titan among …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763157

Fury of the Wind

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which Will had taken up his position at the desk. Only the monotonous
tick of the pendulum clock on the waiting room wall, and the
occasional tap tap of telegraph keys disturbed the quiet. And once
in a while Will Andrews cleared his throat.
Try as he would Will could not keep his eyes off her. His curiosity
grew with the minutes but he did not think it his place to ask
who she was waiting for. He just wished the tardy individual would
hurry up and get there. He didn’t think he should leave the young
woman alone to go to his quarters, although his feet now screamed
to be released from his boots, and his throat felt parched just thinking
about Molly’s lemonade.
He pulled his watch from the fob pocket of his trousers. Half past
four. Half an hour since the train had passed through town, and its
passenger – who had expected to be met – still waited.
A faint sound startled him and he looked up to see the woman
crossing the room towards the wicket. She appeared cool and composed
but Will could see the lines down her cheeks where rivulets
of sweat had streaked her face powder.
“Excuse me, Mr. ah ….”
“Andrews.”
“Mr. Andrews, I wonder if you could tell me if the train was early
today.”
“Nope, right on time as usual.”
“Oh … I see … thank you.” She bit her lower lip and turned away
but suddenly she swung around to face him again.
“Mr. Andrews, would you mind placing a telephone call for me,
please? It would be a local call.”
“Sure. Who to?”
“Fielding. Mr. Benjamin Fielding.”
Will’s mouth dropped open. “Ben Fielding?”
She brightened. “Yes. Do you know him?”
“Ben Fielding ain’t got a phone.”
“Oh.” She said it so quietly he scarcely heard her. Her lips trembled,
and the hand resting on the counter, still gloved, began to
shake just a little.
Again she turned to go but she stopped when he said, “Can I get
my missus to bring you a glass of lemonade? I was just going in for
some.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530

The Qliphoth

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Nicholas:
Special Withdrawal Unit
I have to get it all down. For the record, the Akashic Record of the Aeons, naturally.
Wherein all our phantasms are inscribed, squiggles of amoebic neon in
the starry darkness, every damned thing we’ve done radiating across eternity
like an old broadcast of Journey into Space on its way to the Pleiades.
And I have to set the angelic record quite straight. Writing very carefully.
Not my usual psychedelic scribble—letterforms in doodles of wild purple,
loopy loan-words on the run—but disciplined blocks of sensible words,
arranged thus, line after neat line in my black-and-red Notebook, made in
Taiwan but purchased for me at the hospital shop right here at Oakhill, sunniest
hotbed of sanity in all Devon, as Doctor Jago says, whenever he tries to jolly
us along.
It’s very civilised, “. . . considering, after all, Mr. Beardsley, it is a locked-up
ward, yes?” He allows me the privilege of unlocking my old word-hoard in its
frumpy box of smelly brocade, my little shop of curious relics. I’m permitted
this verb therapy, joining up my grown-up writing. Better this, certainly, than
farting in the day-room all day, like old Beddowes, or wandering about strumming
a cardboard cut-out guitar, which is the preferred pose of Rog, or Rod,
or Rob, or Ron—I haven’t yet made out his name, because our mass dosage of
Largactil makes everybody’s speech slurred.
In fairness to Beddowes, such drugs doth make great farters of us all, our
sulphurous bursts of bad air permeate the lower heavens . . . Perhaps it’s really
Beddowes’ high boredom quotient that’s against him. His preferred interpretation
of reality is that he’s Headmaster of a large inner-city comprehensive
school, that our day-room is his staff-room, and that we, fellow-clients of the
Special Withdrawal Unit, are his backsliding, incompetent staff.
“You’ve no control,” he wags a warning finger several times a day, “no control
at all of your juvenile criminal elementals. Young people committing
problems of evil, terrible state of things in the toilets, boys with knives, and
tinsel in their hair, hair everywhere . . . Look what you have permitted at the
end of the day, you with all your beards and long hair . . .” With me he always
permutates the same set phrases, beards and all. Even the stuffy acoustic of the
day-room can’t take the edge off his abrasive burr, but it goes nicely with his
jowly blue-shaven red face and bald scalp with plastered licks of thin hair.
He likes to grab some old copy of Plain Truth Magazine, and he rolls it up to …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

Wellspring of Love

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how many more times he would be called upon to rescue his headstrong
sister from danger. Mentally, he checked off the incidents that
had landed Rachael in trouble throughout their childhood. The day
he had stopped Bill Harrison, the man he then thought to be his
dad, from giving her a serious beating. That day, Ronnie had taken
the beating in her place. The time Rachael took four-year-old Bobby
and ran away from their temporary home at the Harrisons, into the
middle of the worst prairie blizzard the Alberta community had seen
in years. That time Ronald lost fingers, toes and part of an ear – and
almost lost his life – in an effort to save them.
It grieved him to know that Rachael still felt guilt over his loss. So
many times he had tried to tell her it was not her fault, nor was it her
fault that Bobby, too, had lost fingers and toes as a result of the storm.
She said she believed him, but he had seen her recoil sometimes when
she looked at his hands, or saw his feet when they were swimming in
Emblem Lake. He knew her reaction didn’t stem from squeamishness
– no girl he knew was less squeamish than his sister. No, it was
the knowledge that she had led both him and Bobby into a situation
that could have taken – and almost did take – all of their lives.
But right now there were more immediate concerns. How could
he make Rachael understand that Tim, no matter how innocent, no
matter how gentle he had always been, at eighteen years old had a
youth’s hormones raging through his system? No doubt Rachael was
right – Tim Buckley would not knowingly hurt her. He had been her
playmate since she and Bobby had been adopted by Morley and Tyne
Cresswell eight years earlier. The Buckleys lived not more than half a
mile across the fields from the Cresswell farm, a fact that accounted
for the well worn path between the two houses.
Ronald, while working in the fields, had often seen Rachael and
Bobby on their way to the Buckley farm. But he had rarely seen Tim
coming alone in the other direction. Only when he had company did
his parents allow the mentally challenged boy to leave their yard.
Now, however, Tim came and went at will.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562917

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763327

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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infant, the swell of faraway traffic, but not a peep from the boy. The
gate opened and slammed shut again as though instructed to do so
by an invisible hand.
He’ll be home by dinner, they told Esther Rhodes. He’s at that age,
they said. But the assumption that Fender would soon saunter
home, as Lois Daniels predicted, proved groundless.
– Call me when he turns up, the social worker said. She left her
card on the table.
By early evening the stifling summer air had cooled, shadows
lengthened in the yards. I was told to peddle to the drugstore and
get Mrs. Rhodes’ prescription refilled.
The All-Stars, their practice cancelled, gathered around our
kitchen table. They divided themselves into groups and assigned
duties, filing out the front door solemnly in their black and silver
club jackets.
A few teammates sat with Esther as she worked the phone. She
called kids Fender had gone to school with, fellow idiots, people
he’d done odd jobs for. When, at 9 p.m., he still hadn’t returned, she
called the police.
Others fanned out across the neighbourhood. They knocked on
doors and scoured the woods. The All-Stars aimed their flashlights
into garages and yards, under parked cars, behind every bush. They
rang bells and blew whistles.
Sgt. McManus turned up at the house to explain to Esther that police
don’t file reports until someone has been missing 24 hours. People in
the Project respected the veteran policeman.He had fought at Dieppe.
–We’ll find him, he said. I’ll bring him straight home when we do.
But they didn’t find Fender that night or the following evening
either. Esther Rhodes looked like she was about to unravel. I think
she had so many pharmaceuticals coursing through her bloodstream
that she no longer knew what was going on, which was, I
suppose, their purpose. After three days the All-Stars declared a
moratorium: no more frames tossed until Fender was found.
– Esther has already lost a husband and a baby, a team member
reminded. She might not have the strength to survive the loss of
her angel.
A week passed without a sighting. It was as if the boy had
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00731WSPE

Jazz with Ella

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Suddenly Jennifer turned cold. “Paul, we met that group two days ago. You’ve been with her ever since!”
He nodded. “And you didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?” He pulled on a t-shirt.
Guilt swept over Jennifer. Why hadn’t she noticed? She was supposed to be looking out for the students. The buck stopped at Professor Chopyk, but she was closer to the students, more in touch with their needs—or so she had thought. The answer came back quickly. Because she was too preoccupied with her own love life, that’s why. “But you could have been followed…the authorities….” she spluttered. “Dammit, even Soviet people can’t just go where they wish. Saratov and Toglyatti are closed areas to most Russians—much less to westerners.”
Paul continued to nod.
“How did you get back here?”
“I swam, remember?” It was his turn to laugh at her. “No, I hitched a ride on a farm truck. Vera arranged it. It wasn’t so far. The Volga twists and turns a lot here and the boat did a big loop. Really, we aren’t that far from Toglyatti or her father’s farm as the crow flies.” He pulled a sweater over his T-shirt. “I had a bad moment early this morning when I thought I wouldn’t be here early enough. I knew the ship usually steamed off at first light. But it’s not leaving early today.”
“A good thing!”
“There was another bad moment,” he went on, “when I discovered that I had arrived on the wrong side of the river.” He stopped attending to his wardrobe and studied her. “I appreciate your concern, Jennifer, but I’m a big boy now.” He moved toward the door.
“Wait a minute.” Jennifer stopped him and looked into his cool blue-grey eyes, so much like Volodya, she thought, same high cheekbones, same mane of dark hair. “So you’re not seeing her again?”
He didn’t reply.
“We’ll be in Kazan soon. Then you’ll be too far away to swim back to see her.”
He was silent.
Jennifer sensed that her words would make no difference but she continued. “You’re still thinking about her. She won’t be allowed to leave the Soviet Union, even for visits, unless she’s a model Communist. You know that?” A part of her brain registered the fact that he was packing.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Arrows

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voices when the breeze allowed it. Looking for so long into the
distance, we were completely unprepared to turn and see five men
behind us.
Even before we could rise from our crouching positions, five big
warriors, scowling fiercely, materialized from the bushes, pointing
arrows at us.
“I looks like you may never get to know Guacaipuro, my friend,”
said Tamanoa.
I could not imagine ever responding with such aplomb. This was
his way of retaining control of himself, not showing fear. He was
showing me what to do, how to face death. Or to avoid it. I
mimicked Tamanoa’s stalwart behaviour, literally at ever step, as
the Indians led us into the village; two ahead of us and three behind.
In the days and months that followed, our captors would assume
Tamanoa was my servant because he was a half-breed, and yet it
would be Tamanoa’s ability to interpret their speech and their
behaviour that would keep me alive. Without Tamanoa, I would
never have been able to develop the language skills that enabled me
to talk to Apacuana, and I would never have survived to tell this
tale. But it was God’s will, or the way of Mareoka, to make everyone
assume I was the leader.

I was as lost as I have ever been as we marched to the village at
arrow point. People gathered on the trail and around an open space
dominated by the imposing figure of a man who could only be
Guacaipuro. The sun shone directly above our heads, gleaming
silver on the silky raven-black hair of Guacaipuro, whose face was a
mask chiselled in stone. His eyes were ominous black slits. The
hollows of his cheeks were elongated shadows.
He stood immobile, his chest heaved, and deep lines creased his
brow. The corners of his mouth were pulled down in outright
loathing. He held a spear, the butt resting on the ground.
As we approached, he held the spear almost to my chest, glaring

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Swamped

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Eteo planned to spend the weekend with Ariana, including the
nights. In fact, he wanted to take Ariana to Harrison Hot Springs for
the weekend. It would be the first time, except for some business
trips, that he had slept outside the house since the divorce. He
arranged with Jonathan what to do about their food, left some money
for them, and after Alex and Jonathan told him he could go and they
would be fine for two days, he decided to proceed with his plans.
Then he talked to Ariana again. She was elated that they could get
away for two nights.
He drove to the Ambleside, went upstairs to Ariana’s apartment,
and found her almost ready for their first weekend together. A few
minutes later he was carrying her small overnight bag down to his car.
“Where are you taking me, my love?” she asked him
“I’m not telling you. It wouldn’t be a surprise if I did, would it?
Ariana smiled and kissed him. “Okay then, I’m all yours; take
me anywhere you wish,” she said, then added, “and do anything you
wish with me,” her voice husky with desire.
In silence, he drove east along Lougheed Highway, passing Port
Coquitlam then Mission, through the farmlands of the Fraser Valley
to Harrison Hot Springs in Agassiz. The parking valet at the big hotel
by the lake where they stopped took his car and the doorman carried
their bags to their room, beautifully decorated with fresh flowers and
a bottle of wine with some finger food already laid out on the table.
Ariana smiled and gave him a look of approval. She knew him well
enough by now to know he was man of good taste who enjoyed going
out of his way to make her feel great.
Ariana was eager to show Eteo in her most personal way how
much she appreciated him, and they were soon making passionate
love. Only afterwards did they sample the wine and food and then
spent some time walking along the lakeshore in the evening and
again the next morning. The next evening they enjoyed a candlelight
dinner in the Copper Room, the special hotel restaurant where the
Jones Boys played hits of the sixties, seventies, and eighties.
At one point while they were dancing in the Copper Room after
dinner, Ariana looked into Eteo’s eyes and said, “I’m falling in love
with, Eteo Armen, and though I don’t want to make you …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

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she was pregnant with his child when she died.
Jessica came into his life a number of years later when he was
working in northern British Columbia. Again, a woman on the fringes of
acceptable society, she was wise, beautiful, self-reliant, and she loved him
unconditionally. Ken met her through her brother, Patrick, with whom he
worked. They were First Nations people filled with the pride of their early
ancestors. There is a saying that home is where the heart is, and Ken found
Jessica’s cozy log house in the ranch country the closest thing to a home that
he’d ever experienced. The lovers spent blissful months together planning
their wedding. It was one of the happiest times in his life.
The perverse hand of Fate nearly destroyed him when Jessica and
Patrick were killed in a horrific accident on icy, winter roads. The pickup
was still burning when Ken arrived at the scene, his last hope extinguished
when, through the shattered window of the burnt out vehicle he recognized
the sleeve of Jessica’s buckskin coat, the mate to the one he was wearing.
The traumatic image of the fiery wreck haunted his dreams long after, and
virtually drove him into the Arctic seeking some form of peace.
On his return from the years spent in the Arctic, Ken entered into
a comfortable relationship with Helen. She was a settled, intelligent
schoolteacher who appeared to support his drive to re-establish himself
as a painter within the Vancouver art scene. He was not the first man to
marry under the mistaken belief that his woman accepted his stipulation
that fatherhood was not in his plans. Ken clearly understood the depth of
his own drive and focus and believed that, consumed as he was to right the
wrong that had been done to the Inuit, he had nothing left over to give a
child. But he had not reckoned with the determination of a woman bent on
motherhood.
When Michael was born, Ken was immediately captivated by this tiny
bundle of human life. Torn between wonderment and reality, he knew that
his kind of obsessive dedication to the northern problem left little time for
the sort of nurturing his own father had given him. What was done could
never be undone however, and Ken did his best to provide for his family
both financially and emotionally. Things proceeded relatively smoothly for
a handful of years, although Ken never quite trusted Helen in the same way
he had before the unexpected pregnancy. Happily though, over the years, he
and Michael crafted a wonderfully strong, mutual love and the young man…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

The Unquiet Land

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“Damn!” Finn said and rose slowly to retrieve the bottle that had come to rest against the granite hearth. “Damn, damn, damn,” he repeated, lifting the bottle to the light to see what was left. “Did you ever witness such a clumsy old fool?”
After a moment’s awkward silence, Padraig said, “You were talking about Caitlin.”
“I was, wasn’t I?”
“Is there really something between her and Michael?”
“I think so. It’s usually called love.”
Padraig failed to stop the thought before its shadow fell across his face. “She’s in love with Michael?”
“She appears to be. And I think she could do worse. Michael’s a good, steady, dependable lad. A farmer to the depth of his marrow. He’s one of the Carricks from Kildarragh. Thomas Carrick’s son, but as different from Thomas as a ripple from a tidal wave.”
“I’m glad.”
Finn smiled. “You’ve heard the stories about Thomas Carrick then.”
“As much as I want to hear.”
“You’ll hear worse, Padraig,” Finn said. “You’ll have to learn to accept life and people as somewhat lower creations than the idealized figments of your Christian imagination. But have no fears about Michael being Thomas Carrick’s son. I took Michael in on the recommendation of Seamus Slattery, Michael’s uncle. And it has worked out well for everyone: for Michael himself, for me, for Caitlin. Even for Jinnie who loves him like a son. As he appears about to become. He sneaks in here on his midnight adventures and thinks we don’t know.”
“On his what?” Padraig asked with surprise.
Finn smiled. His eyes had the faraway look of one who had dived deeply into the river of memory and was swimming joyfully. “His midnight adventures,” he repeated slowly, his attention not fully on what he was saying. “When he thinks I’m sound asleep he creeps like a thief to Caitlin’s room. Lusty young stallion.”
Padraig’s disbelief was genuine that a father could allow such conduct. But none of his prepared texts on the subject seemed appropriate to this man who had no idea of morality. How could he begin to reach through to the soul of one who denied God, despised chastity, and did not know the meaning of sin and salvation. “We change the soul, if we change it at all,” Clifford Hamilton had said that evening, “with words, thoughts, ideas…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203