Category Archives: DPChallenge

One Day – Weekly Challenge

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This story was written for the Weekly Challenge based on the photo below.

couple-embrace

Photo courtesy of Cheri Lucas.

One day someone will walk into your life and make you realize why it never worked out with anyone else.  The small plaque etched with those words seemed to burn the phrase into her hand.  She read the words repeatedly as if creating the mantra in her head.  Her thumb continually grazed over the profoundly meaningful sentence.

With her culinary degree in one hand and a collection of personal items she had kept at the school in her other hand, Audrey stepped into the street car for the last ride back to her flat.  She marveled at the warmth of the day as she watched the now familiar buildings pass by her window. Studying in a foreign country had been a daunting task, but one she threw herself into with great passion.

The street car wove its way along the tracks, stopping precisely on time at each stop.  He entered the car, lost in a sea of tourists, so she didn’t notice him immediately.  The group’s constant chatter seemed to rise and fall like a wave throughout the car, drowning all other sounds as they excitedly took in the sights.

Moments after the car had continued its journey, his voice rose above the tumult of the excited tour group and she caught brief strains of the song he was absent-mindedly singing aloud.  He was completely absorbed in his newspaper, his head phones drowning out the cacophony of the outside world, but she could decipher lines from the song Foolish Heart by Steve Perry. Although his song choice came as a surprise to her, the words fell gently on her ears and she leaned into his melody, closing her eyes to focus only on the sound of his voice.

The street car stopped and her eyes fluttered open.  Any noise in the street car had been extinguished and she felt his gaze on her before she looked up to meet his stare.  No words were spoken.  She smiled demurely and lowered her head slightly, embarrassed to be so caught up in his gaze.  The words of the song found her ears again and he continued to serenade her on the street car. She met his eyes once more and they remained locked on each other until he finished the song.

The feeling of floating was interrupted as the ride seemed to come to an abrupt stop and the tour group exited the car.  He looked longingly at her, smiled and left the street car, paper in hand and humming another tune.  The street car lurched forward, but she knew she couldn’t remain on the car and just let him walk away.

“Wait”, her voice penetrated the air and the street car stopped.  She gathered her bag and her diploma and jumped onto the street.  He had a head start, but she caught up to him and tapped his shoulder.  He turned with a startled expression that warmed without hesitation when he realized it was her.  Not a word was spoken as she fell into him.  His arms circled around her and they stood motionless.

As the street car finally gained momentum up the hill, the plaque remained on the seat where she had been only moments ago.  Someday, someone else would need to read those words, but her one day was today.

Daily Prompt: Ode to a cottage long gone

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The Daily Prompt has once again made me take a leisurely walk through my past.

It was the middle of three cottages, the anchor.  It stood on a point of land that encompassed three family cottages, but my fondest memories of childhood fun were created in that cottage in the middle – the one that belonged to my uncle.  Our family cottage flanked one end of the trio and my mom’s cousin’s cottage bordered the opposite side.

Tilley Cottage From Fords 1911

Our cottage was the last of the three built and was erected in 1911.  The two other cottages were built in 1907 and 1908.  Each of the cottages had rustic Muskoka charm and beautiful views of Lake Rosseau, but the thing I found most intriguing about my uncle’s cottage was the staircase that led from the kitchen to the maid’s quarters.  Although there had not been a maid occupying those quarters for decades, that passageway provided many years of childhood entertainment.

That staircase was the gateway to the best hide and seek games, it was perfect for sneaking into the kitchen for a midnight snack and it was the best spot to lay in wait for the true element of surprise, either upstairs or downstairs.

As time marched on, my parents sold our cottage.  Not long after that, my uncle sold his cottage and the structure that entombed some of my favorite childhood memories was obliterated.  It was replaced by a four-story monstrosity that has no place on Muskoka soil.  The new owner went so far as to rip out the century old trees to pave the driveway to his new eyesore. It honestly sickened me.

The remaining cottage of the three is still in the family and we gather there fairly regularly in the summer.  Thankfully the trees are in full summer foliage and our vision of the spaceship next door is limited.  It still amazes me how much a wooden structure could embed itself in my heart.

The start of my writing journey – thanks Mr. S.!!

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Today’s Daily Prompt is – Tell us about a teacher who had a real impact on your life, either for the better or the worse. How is your life different today because of him or her?

There are always teacher’s that will stand out in my mind for various reasons.  My Grade 9 Geography teacher spoke in such a monotone voice, I almost failed the class because I could not train my mind to pay attention.  But the one teacher that will always stand out as the person who helped to create the person I am today is my Grade 6 teacher, Mr. Stimson.  He truly loved his students and it showed in his teaching.  His lessons were not all taught in the classroom and did not entirely come from a syllabus.

We learned to be respectful, we learned how to survive outdoors during his Wednesday cookouts and we learned how to be decent human beings.  We learned that learning was fun.  His class was our first real introduction to creative writing and I never looked back.  Several years ago, after a very lengthy teaching career, he retired.  I know many people of all ages who had the pleasure of being in his class and every single one of them refer to him as their favorite teacher.   Upon his retirement, I wrote this poem for him.  Thanks Mr. S!!

 Inspiration

Words of Inspiration

He stood at the front of the classroom, a smile upon his lips,

A comical expression on his merry face, hands upon his hips.

He led us through his rhyming lesson, many not paying attention,

But something he said piqued my interest and I delved into a creation.

A whirlwind of thoughts flew through my mind, eager to be set free.

Nobody knew before this moment, that there lurked a poet in me.

Words and phrases I’d never known, spoke music in my ear,

Expressing my feelings in a rhyming prose, and this I did not fear.

He encouraged us to be individuals, to learn, to absorb, to think,

And when we achieved these remarkable heights, he’d always be “tickled pink”.

He is the epitome of teachers, a leader to some and a friend in many ways,

And for his attention and encouragement, I wish to give him praise.

His words of inspiration, helped me to reach inside my heart,

To find out what I hold inside, that tells me and others apart.

I have a special gift, a creative flair, that is very much my own,

But without his help, his caring words, it’s something I’d never have known.

Daily Prompt – The Light Beyond The Glass

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Daily Prompt – Take the first sentence from your favorite book and make it the first sentence of your post.  I took this line from Cold Fire, by Dean Koontz.

Even before the events in the supermarket, Jim Ironheart should have known trouble was coming.  The gloomy weather was an overwhelming indication that the confines of his small apartment would be his only safe haven, but he was never one to let the voice of reason be his guide.  He was a man, after all, and he would let no sinister feeling shape his mood or carve the path of his day.  He prepared himself for the barrage of wind and rain and locked the door behind him.

The Supermarket, oddly named since it stood on a small corner and was the only store for miles, seemed to cast an eerie glow through the mottled grey light of the morning and he  paused with his hand on the door.  Something was waiting for him inside that store.  He felt it as much as he felt his heart beginning to pick up the pace of its beat.  He surveyed as much of the store as he could see beyond the shelving units that were home to his precious fast food addiction.  After what seemed like an eternity, he couldn’t delay any longer without looking like he was casing the joint and as he pushed open the door the chimes signaled his entrance into the store.

The air was frigid.  Not just air-conditioned, but Arctic cold.  The exhalation of his breath hovered in front of his face and seemed to hang in the air long enough to form its own icicles.  The place was deserted.  Apart from the humming of the coolers, there was no sound.  With slight trepidation, Jim made his way deeper into the store.  It took several seconds before he realized his footsteps made no noise.  There was no squeak of wet rubber on the tile floor and no audible proof that he had even moved at all.  The incessant hum of the fridges seemed to increase in volume and pierced the silence like an arrow.  Jim was now drawn to the back of the store.  He needed to get to that fridge.

As he pulled open the door to the cooler, the world behind him went black.  The ethereal luminescence emitted from the refrigerated section of the store was the only thing that seemed to exist.   Jim turned slightly to look behind him and there was nothing.  The store seemed to have been pulled into a giant vacuum and the only thing that existed within those four walls were Jim and the door he still grasped in his hand.  The contents of the fridge no longer existed.  Jim seemed to be standing on the divide between the blackness behind him and the white light of the cooler.

Jim stared at the light.  He cautiously brought his free hand to the opening and found the courage to let his fingers be bathed in the warmth that the light was emitting.  His fingers tingled in the light and he felt a joy that he didn’t know he had within him.  He liked it.  He wanted more.  He stepped into the opening and the door closed behind him.  He was awash in such a blissful feeling.  He began to weep and as the saline from his tears saturated his cheeks he felt a sense of utter happiness.  All the pent-up anger and disappointment were sluiced away by his tears and for the first time in his life he felt blessed.

The alarm clock blared and Jim was startled awake.  The modest decor in his apartment swam into focus and Jim realized he had been dreaming.  He swung his feet out of bed and sat up, wiping the cobwebs of the dream from his head.  As he rubbed his eyes, he felt the dampness from his tears and noticed that his pillow was wet.  As he struggled to recall the fragments of his dream, he began to smile.  The smile became wider and, for the first time in a long time, he was happy to greet the morning.   Jim carried that feeling of joy with him for a long time after that experience and realized that the name “super market” was a gross understatement.

Thanks Dad!!

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This post is in response to the Daily Post Challenge – Quote Me.

My favorite quote is actually something my dad used to say and it never left me.  We, like 90% of families in the world, went through our hardships and during those undulating financial and emotional times, he would never let anything steal the smile from his face.  He would always say “where there’s a will, there’s a way” and somehow, we always found that way.  It really speaks volumes about the man he was and the lessons he taught us about perseverance and never giving up your dream.

I should have actually used this quote in my earlier post today, it would have been quite fitting!!

Childhood revisited – The memory that won’t go away

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This is not the first memory I have from my childhood, but this is one that stands out in my mind and helped to define the relationship with my brother that would continue for years to come.

I still recall the most minor of details that day and I was all of five years old.  Oakville was a seemingly small city in 1974 and the streets were safe enough that my brother and I could walk ourselves to and from school without parental supervision.  The day was crisp, the sun filtered through the autumn leaves and reflected jagged pieces of warm light onto the lawns and sidewalks.  School had been fun that day and I was anxious to regale my brother with tales of arts and crafts and have him dispel the myth of why some kids eat paste.  He was nine – he would surely be more privy to that information than a mere five year old girl.

The two of us began our journey home, and as I skipped along beside him I expounded about my day.  I had become quite ensconced in my own story and somewhere along the way I realized he was not beside me any longer.  I slowed my pace and heard him behind me, fiddling with a wrapper on what I had assumed was a stashed piece of candy from my beloved Shoreline Variety Store.  The sound of the wrapper immediately piqued my attention and halted the story I had become so engrossed in telling.

oh henry

I turned to find him holding out a piece of candy and remember thinking how generous it was for him to share.  It was surely a treat that would have been frowned on by my parents, but that made it all the more intriguing.  I gladly took the candy, and as I began to bring the treasured morsel to my lips, he stood stoic, waiting for me to take the first bite.

As my teeth sank into the delicacy that my brother had so graciously shared, his laughter pierced my eardrums before the pungent flavor assaulted my taste-buds.  His gales of laughter floated through the autumn winds as I tried frantically to remove every shrapnel of excrement from my mouth.  My brother had fed me a piece of dog shit.

I don’t think even Forrest Gump would have outrun me on the way home that day.  I sprinted past the crossing guard and could barely see the sidewalk for the tears.  I could hear my brother panting behind me, trying to catch up to me before I was able to cross the threshold of our home and explain to my mother how my taste-buds had been violated by a heinous act of terrorism.  I’m sure my words were not nearly as eloquent as I would like to think they were, but she got the point, and he got the spanking.

This simple act of cruelty led to years of pranks and retribution, usually always at my expense.  Not so many years later, because I seemingly still adored him, emulated him and worshipped the ground he walked on, I was easily swayed into helping knock a beehive from the side of our garage with a hockey stick.  Forrest Gump, again, would have been proud of my speed and agility getting to the old station wagon.  Long story short, there was a lot of baking soda required that afternoon to cover all of the puncture wounds those bees left in my body.

Thankfully my days of naiveté are over and I am perpetually careful around my dear brother.  And he may not know this, unless he reads this post, but I am still plotting my revenge!!

Written in response to the Daily Post Challenge.

A Chance Encounter

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Today’s Daily Prompt was this – Open your nearest book to page 82. Take the third full sentence on the page, and work it into a post somehow. (I highlighted the sentence in question)

~

I loathe public transportation.  Every nuance of its existence offends me. The platforms are loud and over-crowded, the blended fragrances of the vast array of perfumes, cologne and foul body odors are noxious and people are overtly rude.  I don’t like crowds and I certainly don’t like feeling like a sheep being herded into a confined space.  I wish I had a car.

I purposely took a seat in the station far from the gathering crowd.  If I could begin my holiday with some personal space, I might have a fighting chance of surviving the journey without incident.  I buried my nose in the latest Oprah Book Club selection, The Poisonwood Bible, and tuned out the din of the increasing population of travelers.

I felt his stare before I actually looked up to take notice of him.  He was staring directly at me.  His eyes were so fixed on my face that he had seemingly forgotten to blink for about three minutes.  His face was worn, and it carried with it a lifetime of pain.  The deep-set lines in his forehead reminded me of the lines carved into a sand-blasted sign.  To say he had character would be a gross understatement.  But nothing about his gruff complexion made me uncomfortable.  There was a genuine sadness in his eyes and, for the first time in my life, I wanted to talk to a complete stranger.  I made the first move and closed the distance between us.

He was the one who spoke first, “You look like her.”

He blinked and a single tear traced through the jagged pattern of wrinkles on his cheeks.  The words he uttered almost came out in whispers.  He had lost his daughter, and every day he would come to the bus station just to catch a glimpse of someone who resembled her, to help him hang on to her memory.  We chatted about ourselves briefly and I became so intrigued by this man that I barely heard the metallic voice announcing the arrival of my bus.  I stood to gather my things, but I didn’t want to go.  I didn’t want to leave him.

I missed my bus that day.  My family was angry that I was late for the festivities, but when I explained what had happened, they were moved to tears, as was I.  The sweet man who stared at me in the bus station and I now have lunch together every Friday.  I now call him my friend.

On the eve of my 100th birthday

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Written for the Daily Post Challenge: You have the chance to write one last post on your blog before you stop blogging forever.

Last blog entry – March 27th,  2069 – the eve of my 100th birthday

I am a smoldering pot of emotion.  This blogging journey, and all of you, my fellow writers, have taught me a great deal about myself.  I was apprehensive beginning what I thought would be a whim, but what truly turned into a collection of moments that, once they were added together, defined me.  From the rare glimpses into my humor to the things that truly touched my heart, I have bared my soul through pontificating on these random polysyllabic profundities.

Many suns have set as I assumed the position at my keyboard, unaware that the day had passed and the night had now enveloped the walls of my widow’s peak to which I have become accustomed to writing behind.  The wind has frolicked through the leaves and tickled them on its way.  Those same leaves have fallen to allow for the snow to blanket the branches, season after season, and I was none the wiser.  Months, even years passed as my mind was lost in thoughts of future tales to tell.

And now, in what may be my eleventh hour, I am overcome with grief as I say goodbye to what has possibly been one of few true friends that genuinely understood me.  This blog has been the one confidant that I was able to tell my deepest secrets.  It let me rant when I needed to release my anger, it laughed at my humor and embraced me when I wrote about things that absolutely broke my heart.  It has nursed me through the passing of loved ones and helped me welcome the next generations into our family.  And now, as I sit alone on my last night on this earth, it is this blog that is my only companion, for it sees me as I truly am.  I want my family to remember me full of life and not a feeble, bed-ridden old woman, barely able to type.

There is a slight chill in the air and I feel the darkness seeping into the corners of my eyes.  I shall hit ‘publish’ one last time so my last words will enter the blogosphere as I enter the light.  My words will be there to greet you one last time as those who have passed before me await my arrival to join them in that place beyond our world.  Thank you for joining me on what was a very long, but extremely fulfilling journey.

Weekly writing challenge – A picture is worth 1000 words

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It seemed perfectly innocent.  They were freshly bathed, well dressed, almost too well dressed for a Tuesday morning had I thought about it, and they both presented themselves with an intelligence far beyond their years.  Their mother seemed embarrassed when they both ran to me, each clutching one of my hands in their tiny grips.  Neither of them seemed afraid, nor did they show much emotion at all, and for a moment we just stood, unmoving, holding hands as if this were a natural occurrence.

Perplexed and without knowing how to react, I looked to their mother for some guidance.  Although trying to maintain her poise, she seemed distant and somewhat aloof.  When she finally regained her composure, she smoothed her dress, approached the three of us and complimented me on my suit.  The children remained reticent as the idle banter of adults hovered like cartoon balloons above their heads, but their grips never wavered.

She asked if I would like a coffee, so we walked a few blocks, sharing idle conversation, the children never losing their hold on my hands.  There were no introductions made, so my comments were relegated to generalities.  She was referred to as ‘little girl’ and he was called ‘strapping lad’.  They seemed content with these monikers and never once did they volunteer their birth names.

When the little girl finally spoke, her voice was so hushed it was almost impossible to hear over the din of the crowd.  “My dad died.  You look like him.”   My heart seemed to quiver in my chest and I felt it break into a thousand shards.  I wanted to let go of the boy’s hand and hug her.  I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but his grip remained firm so all I could do was squeeze her hand and give her a wink.

I had been so distracted by the children that I hadn’t noticed the row of houses instead of the coffee shops I had anticipated.  The children had stopped in front of a brick facade and, with their stoned expressions, they turned to face their mother.  The camera recorded that moment before I had a chance to react.

With their grips remaining firm, the children guided me up the stairs towards the house.  The mother had managed to beat me to the door and fumbled to get the key into the lock.  The hinges on the door vehemently disagreed with being opened and argued every inch of the way.  Once inside the house, the children released their grip on my hands and stood together, an immovable fortress blocking the way back to the door.

As my eyes adjusted to the lack of daylight, the row of pictures in the foyer began to materialize.  Each photo, almost an exact replica of what I suspected the picture would look like that was just taken outside.  Although the little girl and the strapping lad were in different colored apparel, the photo would have been an exact replica.  My heart rate increased.  When the strapping lad finally spoke, my blood turned to ice.  “Welcome home, daddy.”

As the words ‘I’m not your daddy’ tumbled from my lips, I felt a dull crack at the base of my skull.  It would be the last thing I ever felt.