Saturday, December 24, 2022

The Calling (short story) by Leanne Dyck

a downpour becomes magical for one teenage girl when... 

Illustrator unknown

Before and after school, she walked the same road day after day--sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the sun. Today was sunny but--. She heard car tires crunching gravel.

"Hey, church girl." The car was full of hooting and hollering boys from her class. "Jump in, we want to give you a ride." Laughter.

Even though a rain cloud moved to cover the sun, even though she felt a drop of rain, she told them, "That's okay. I'm fine."

More laughter as they drove away.

She prayed that they would stay away. She took a shortcut home, through the forest. Hoping they wouldn't find her, she came out on the old road. Things were o--. She heard tires crunching gravel. She looked around for a place to hide but--.

A commanding voice said, "Mary. Mary, get in the car." The car didn't look familiar. It was too expensive for their town.

The light rain shower became heavy. And somehow, Mary knew the voice couldn't be denied. She pulled open the car door and crawled into the bucket seat that hugged her body. 

When she closed the door, the interior light went out like it always does in cars but a bright light remained, filling the car.

"Mary, You are God's precious child. With you, He is very pleased." The driver... The driver glowed with bright light. "I bring you tidings of great joy for onto you a child will be born, and you shall call him the prince of peace, the..."


by Abraham Hunter


Wishing you joy, happiness and peace


photo by ldyck
20/12/22



2023 on this blog...

We'll begin the year with a book review...

Flipping Forward, Twisting Backward
Alma Fullerton
illustrated by Sarah Mensinga


And then...

Sunday, December 18, 2022

Blankie by Leanne Dyck (short story)

Blankie is a holiday-themed story about a senior citizen celebrating the season in a retirement home.

Illustrator unknown

The retirement home residents were gathering in the large room with the decorated Christmas tree in the corner. Some of them were in wheelchairs like he was. Others were aided by walkers or canes. Still others shuffled unaided to a padded chair, grabbed an armrest, and slowly lowered themselves. The younger, more spry caregivers circulated song sheets. And there was singing or humming or croaking. They even sang his favourite carol, "Oh, come all thee faithful, joyful and..." He still had a good voice, a strong voice, a melodious voice--a deep baritone that he imagined shook the room. Cherry red punch in clear plastic cups and shortbread cookies cut into snowflakes were served. The partiers were encouraged to indulge. He took two cookies.

The pretty blonde caregiver... What was her name? Was it... It... Holly? Maybe... He decided that Holly would do. Holly, with a Santa hat on her head, pulled presents out from under the tree. Depositing a wrapped box on his lap, Holly told him, "From your family." and gave him a peck on the cheek. 

His family--sons, daughters, grandchildren, and... He had a vague memory of a great-grandchild or many two--were flung like snowballs across the country. Sometimes he wondered if they thought of him. But they did, they had. The proof was on his lap.

His arthritic hands tore off the wrapping paper. Someone had used too much tape. The cardboard box unwrapped, he prepared for more tearing but someone had the good sense to put the tape away. He flipped back the flaps on the box and peeked inside. What was that shade? Periwinkle blue. Was it a cardigan? What a thoughtful, welcomed gift. He always felt a draft.

Holly was back beside him. She helped him pull the sweater--. No, it was a blanket. She helped him slowly pull the blanket out of the box.

A blanket. As a newborn, he'd been wrapped in a receiving blanket. There were pictures in his photo album. His earliest memory was of a blanket. He'd called it Blankie. Thumb in mouth, he toddled off to bed, dragging Blankie behind him. Late at night, if the monsters came, he pulled Blankie over his head, and feeling safe, he drifted off to sleep. During the day, he threw Blankie over two chairs. He spent hours in his secret hideaway. He was seldom without Blankie. He carried her everywhere.

Until... He remembered the day his mother informed him, "A big boy like you can't carry a blanket to kindergarten." But she added with a wink. "You can carry a piece." The silver chrome scissors flashed in the sunlight as Blankie was reduced to a small square of flannel, bordered on two sides by silk. He carried the transformed Blankie in a pant pocket. And so when the other boys were too loud... And so when the teacher was mean... He shoved his hand into his pocket and rubbed the flannel, the silk between his fingers. With Blankie in his pocket, he stood straighter and held his head higher.

He kept the blanket square in his pocket for years--through elementary, junior high, and even high school. Entering the workforce, he put, by this point, more gray than light blue square in his wallet. He only pulled it out when he was alone. It was on the table beside him giving him the confidence he needed to phone her. It was in his wallet reminding him to be a gentleman when he took her on their first date. The day he married her, he took the square out of his wallet and threw it away. Men don't need blankies, he told himself. Each of his children was wrapped in a receiving blanket. He had pictures in his album. And he told them stories about his adventures with Blankie--and they always begged for more. 

The periwinkle blanket free of the box, Holly helped him drape it over his lap. "Happy Holidays," she said. 

"Happy Holidays," he replied. He ran the flannel, the silk between his fingers and he felt happy, he felt remembered, he felt loved.



Christmas Eve on this blog...


Saturday, December 24
The Calling (short story)
a downpour becomes magical for one teenage girl when... 


Listening to...




A rare treat...

Thanks to the Springwater Lodge on Mayne Island my husband and I got to try a new-to-us

Sunday, December 11, 2022

Book Review: Driven: The Secret Lives of Drivers by Marcello Di Cintio, published by Biblioasis (non-fiction)

 In 2018 author Marcello Di Cintio 'spent a year traveling around Canada'--west to east; south to north--'to seek out the life stories of the nation's taxi drivers.' (p. 5) In Driven, Di Cintio devotes thirteen chapters to introducing cabbies--and in chapter nine he writes about the non-profit ride-share service Ikwe Safe Ride. Ikwe 'matches volunteer female drivers with women needing a ride.' (p. 137)



Driven: The Secret Lives of Drivers

Marcello Di Cintio

Biblioasis

2021

271 pages

As I've lived most of my life in rural Canada, I can count the number of taxi rides I've taken on the fingers of both hands. However, ever since I watched the sitcom Taxi I've been intrigued by the occupation. Taxi was about driving cabs in the United States. Interested to learn about Canadian cabbies drove me to read Driven. (See what I did there. Clever, eh?)

I learned...

An escaped slave from Kentucky, Thornton Blackburn was Canada's first taxi driver but he wasn't the last immigrant cabbie. 

'A federal government analysis of 2006 Census data showed that over half of all Canadian taxi divers were born abroad.' (p. 247)

And...

The male-dominated occupation--'Female cabbies remain a rarity if not an outright novelty' (p. 81)--'is physically and psychologically unhealthy' (p. 69) and life-threatening. 'A 2012 Statistics Canada report revealed that taxi drivers were murdered on the job at a higher rate than workers of any other legal profession. Even police officers are killed less often.' (p. 102)

Cabbies are threatened with violence. The occupation is threatened by Uber. Due to technicalities, Uber drivers can jump through loopholes that taxi drivers get tangled in. If things remain unchanged, cabbies 'figure the industry only has about five years left.' (p. 50)

On page 137, Di Cinto writes: 'During my year among the cabbies, I would come to see most taxi drivers as inherently good.'

Nice guys in tough times. Maybe it's time to ask ourselves, what can we do to help?

I found Driven: The Secret Lives of Drivers by Marcello Di Cintio to be an engaging and informative read. 

by Kathy Lawrence

December on this blog...

Sunday, December 18
Blankie (short story)
a holiday-themed story about a senior citizen celebrating the season in a retirement home.

Each year I celebrate Christmas Eve by sharing a story...
Saturday, December 24
The Calling (short story)
a downpour becomes magical for one teenage girl when... 


Sunday, December 4, 2022

The Sweater (short story) by Leanne Dyck

The holidays bring unmanageable stress to some people's lives. This short story is for them--it's about spousal abuse. 

by David Hughes

In a glass-walled boardroom, businessmen in suits and ties sit around a rectangular table. Garrett Smit stands in front of these men feeling like a sheep among lions. Sweat pours from his forehead into his eyes. On the floor beside him, an easel holds a chart.

"You can." His voice quivers. He coughs, takes a sip of water, and tries again. "You can clearly see by this..." He sweeps his hand back--too far. "Ch--." The chart falls from the easel to the fl--. Garrett catches the chart but--.

The clients he had hoped to--; he needed to impress push back their chairs.

"Please," Garrett begs, "you need to--."

The clients make a beeline for the door. Garrett is called into his boss' office.

***

In an immaculate kitchen, two friends sip coffee in a quiet suburban neighborhood. As Bev Smit chats with her friend Mary, she weaves in yarn ends on the man's sweater she has just finished knitting. The cuff on her shirt rides up revealing a purple bruise.

"More bruises, Bev?"

"I'm a klutz." The same excuse she always uses.

"You're not his punching bag." Mary leaves the table. "Never again!" She heads down the hall to the bedroom. 

Bev is in hot pursuit.

Mary slides open the glass doors and finds a suitcase in the back of the closet. She puts it on the bed, opens the drawers, and starts to pack.

"Mary, I can't." Bev notices the time on the alarm clock--5:40 PM. "I need to start supper." She grabs the clothes out of Mary's hands, stuffs them back into the bureau, and rushes down the hall to the kitchen."

"What are you going to make? I'll help."

"No, Mary, you need to go. Garrett will be upset if he finds you here."

"Come with me."

"I can't."

On the way to the door, Mary hugs her friend. "Call if you need anything--night or day."

Alone, Bev goes to the fridge and fills her hands with vegetables. She peels and chops.

As she works, she glances out the window. Headlights pierce the night.

She rushes to the freezer, grabs two pork chops, and puts them in the microwave to defrost.

She's taking the pork chops out of the microwave when the front door flies open. She runs to greet him. "Hi, honey. How was your day?"

"Peachy. Just peachy." He spies the extra coffee mug on the table. "Who. Was. Here?"

She grabs the offending mug--"Mary. Only Mary."--and deposits it in the sink.

"How many times do I have to tell you? No visitors!" He roars.

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. She dropped by and I didn't want--."

"You're sorry. You're always sorry."

"Please, please, don't be mad. I have... I have something for you." She rushes into the bedroom, grabs the sweater, and rushes out.

"Wow," he mocks, "a sweater."

"I know it's not much...just a sweater, but... I made it for you. Please try it on."

"All right, all right. Oh, my God, woman." In the bedroom, in front of the full-length mirror, he pushes his head into the neck, hands into the sleeves, and pulls it down over his body. He stands admiring himself. And then he sees the suitcase.

Bev tries to explain, apologize, beg, but Garrett isn't prepared to listen. His anger boils over. He coils his fingers into fists and...

***

Bev brings her knitting to the guild meeting and when the president asks, "Is there any new business?", Bev, in a voice no louder than a whisper, shares her truth. 

All present--Mary and the rest--listen carefully and when she is done a plan is formulated.

***

After work, Garrett heads to his favourite watering hole--a dive where drinkers go to drink. He heads to his dark corner. "Labatt's Wildcat," he tells the waitress, "and keep them coming."

Beer after beer, he becomes so loaded that he doesn't notice her through the fog until she sits down. Pretty, he judges and thinks it's his lucky day. "What'll you have? My treat."

"What kinds of coolers do you have?" She asks the waitress.

"Peach, raspberry, strawberry, and--."

She orders a strawberry cooler. When it's delivered to the table, she takes a sip and pulls her knitting needles out of her purse. He thinks that's odd but whatever. She's still pretty.

The next time he looks over she's flipping through a magazine. She must find what she's looking for because she presses the page open with the palm of her hand. Sliding the magazine across the vinyl tablecloth, she breathes in his ear. "Like it?"

He speaks to her cleavage. "I don't know. I guess."

"It's what your wife should knit, but she's too busy knitting for you."

He shifts his focus from her breasts to the magazine. "What?"

"Don't you think it would look nice on her? Suit her figure."

"How do you know what my wife looks like?"

She takes another sip of her drink. "Oh, we know a lot of things."

He drains the old and starts the new.

"We know how your wife got all those bruises."

He puts both hands palms down on the table, leans forward, and glares at her. "Leave me the--."

She swings her needle up in an arch and down. The metal tip slides into his hand, between the bones. "I said we know and if you don't stop, you'll see us again. And you don't want to see us again because the next time won't be so pleasant."


by M L Swanburg

December on this blog...

I'm filling the month with stories and also a book review.


Sunday, December 11
by Marcello Di Cintio
Who drives Canada's taxis?

Sunday, December 18
Blankie (short story)
a holiday-themed story about a senior citizen celebrating the season in a retirement home.

Each year I celebrate Christmas Eve by sharing a story...
Saturday, December 24
The Calling (short story)
a downpour becomes magical for one teenage girl when...