I'm kinda sorta from Fort St. James, or more precisely, "Pinchi Creek" (not lake, I know my parents always said 'creek'), which doesn't seem to be on the map. I was born in Trail, BC, though, because my mum came "south" for my birth. But Pinchi Creek and Fort St. James are the earliest back in my childhood that I can remember.
I would go north in a heartbeat. I mean, real north. I've also been lucky enough to live in Alaska. Some people say you either love the north or you hate it, and I'm a northern lover.
I miss the aurora every time I look up into a winter sky.
A writer was both good and bad, and St. Peter couldn't make up his mind. So he decided to show the writer the alternatives.
Down in Hell, the writer saw thousands of writers, row on row, chained to their desks, trying to write with scratchy quills and bottles of clotted ink, in air filled with cigarette smoke. Imps patrolled the rows of desks with whips, lashing the ones that were falling behind their quota.
"Take me to Heaven," said the writer.
There, St. Peter showed him thousands of writers, row on row, chained to their desks, trying to write with scratchy quills and bottles of clotted ink, in air filled with cigarette smoke. Angels patrolled the rows of desks with whips, lashing the ones that were falling behind their quota.
"But I don't see any difference," protested the writer.
"Oh, but there is. Here in Heaven, the writers get published."
Dear and Cherished Co-Workers:
As many of you are aware, I am guilty of being a smoker. This means that my sense of smell is not quite as acute as a healthily-habited person’s is. However, even I have noticed that these days the fridge contains a certain odour which wafts gently upward as I open the door, an odour that carries with it a lethal, though subtle, impression of rot and decay.
To me, it is most likely the long-departed remains of something that was once in the citrus family. However, I’m not quite sure, and I’m scared to check further. But courage, and duty, both say I must.
Wish me luck. I’m going in this afternoon.
Oh, and this is all just a long-winded reminder to us all to occasionally check the fridge for the ghosts of lunches uneaten past.
It was once an orange. Well, it was, one long-ago day, a half-orange, to be precise. I located it near the back of the fridge, lurking in the shadows, covered in dark green mould, and quivering in a rather menacing fashion. Gingerly, I poked it. It hissed at me.
I donned a hazmat suit, and proceeded forth.
After a fight the likes of which would make that chick in Kill Bill (both parts I and II) proud, I captured the embodiment of evil itself, and wrestled it into a plastic garbage bag. Then I sat back, smug, and most pleased with my initiative.
I didn’t realize, however, that it, the Quivering Essence of Organic Evil, had backup.
My friends, if you thought the former-citrus was stomach-churning, you have no idea what inner strength I needed to summon in order to dispatch the…
CHICKEN BREAST OF DEATH.
My shudders make it difficult to type, even now. But it does not matter. You see, there are no words I’ve deemed adequate enough to relay the final battle.
I will be back shortly.
I need a cigarette.
I love to read about things people say in their sleep. I've been known to peruse the Something Awful forums for the sleep talk threads (and the ghost story threads) despite my rather advanced age. Not only for the absurdity of it all, the veritable extravaganza of nonsense, but because apparently I contribute my own stream of surrealism to the dark hours. My dreams are vivid, and frequently interesting (to me) and seem to start within moments of hovering on the edge between awake and asleep.
Apparently, I talk. But also, according to my husband, I've woken both him and myself up by laughing in my sleep. Among other things, I seem to like to talk about food, exclaiming:
I... don't... like.... ham.
Fish!
Have you tried the rockets yet? (Rockets=a kind of candy seen around Hallowe'en)
There are a lot more, but of course, I only remember the ones he's told me about.
He says the most disturbing incident occurred when I sat up in bed, looked over at him, and said in a deep and portentous tone...
"Murdered."
Imagine husband lying in bed, eyes wide open, sleepless for the rest of the night.
He says there's lots more that he never thinks to jot down. Of course, I'm also one of those annoying people who come to bed claiming not to be the least bit tired, and yet, I'm asleep (and snoring) in ten minutes, while he lies there, thinking, worrying, and watching the clock turn from 11... 12... 1...
At least I try to keep him company with some conversation.
My story "Melting" appears in "Naughty or Nice: Christmas Erotica Stories". Woo! I got my authors' copies the other day.
It's still a thrill to see a story in print. PRINT!
November rain smoothed the sand, and wind unmade it. Frothy waves broke like dirty cappuccino foam on the shore. Ragged clouds skidded across torn, grey skies, leaving tattered umbrellas and sodden clothes. Sally smelled of vinegar and grease, fish and coffee.
The bell above the door tinkled; the last customer was leaving. The ring, still new, sparkled on her left hand, even in the gloomy day. She was careful of it in the sink, proud of the tiny diamond.
The cafe had little custom at three o’clock. Only Mrs. Balfour and her three mongrel dogs walked the beach, grimly taking their air. Gregory smiled, and turned the sign to “closed”. She never stopped in, anyway.
He called Sally to the back to “help” prep for early diners at five.
Against the cooker, he pulled her close, and undid her apron. Her protest was brief, hushed by a kiss. He unpinned her hair, curling in the steam, red as sunrise. Unfastening his trousers, his eager hard-on was warm and silky. His bride’s hand lay shy on his flesh, amid giggles and kisses. Newlyweds, a teacup full, heart’s delight. Money was scarce, and it mattered not a bit.
The dishes could wait.
A couple made a deal that whoever died first, would come back and inform the other of what happens after death. Their biggest fear was that there was no afterlife.
After a long life, the husband was the first to go, and true to his word he made contact...
"Mary. Mary..."
"Is that you, Fred?"
"Yes, I've come back like we agreed."
"What's it like?"
"Well, I get up in the morning, I have sex, I have breakfast, off to the golf course, I have sex, I bathe in the sun, and then I have sex twice. I have lunch, another romp around the golf course, then sex pretty much all afternoon. After supper, golf course again. Then have sex until late at night. The next day it starts again."
"Oh, Fred, you surely must be in heaven!"
"Not exactly. I'm a rabbit in Suffolk.”
It's. Its. ITS! IT'S!
It's.
This is a contraction of "it is".
Its.
This is a possessive, meaning "belonging to it".
What is so terribly brain-taxing about this simple, little word? What makes it so terribly difficult for 99% of the population of North America to use correctly? Perhaps I exaggerate. Perhaps it is only 99% of people who write things that appear on the Internet who find the distinction between it's and its a challenge.
I can overlook the misuse of this small word when used by people who do not possess a degree in English. Wait--I can't. But I can summon kindness in my heart for people for whom English is not a first language who misuse the dreaded it's/its. However, people who write for phlegmsucking newspapers? People who make their living writing? People who represent the very character and reputation of their employer with their words? Shame. Shame!
I am honestly shocked by the number of "news" stories I have read online, stories that are from newspapers, magazines, television (ah...) news programmes where it's/its are used interchangeably, and seemingly at random.
Also: the hot chocolate packets that are provided to us at work, those delicious hot chocolate packets I was enjoying so much come these dark and cold, rainy and windy days of drear November... Well, I read the ingredients list on one this morning. Now I can no longer stomach putting all that incomprehensible conglomeration of factory-produced artificiality into my stomach. Please. I do not need to consume the abomination known as "non-dairy creamer" and "corn syrup" as the primary ingredients in my hitherto enjoyed mid-morning office treat.
I hate driving home on the highway in the blackness and pouring rain.
I weigh three more pounds than I did at the start of the week.
I do not want to take every single file we have, create new files, labels and categories, and refile every single piece of paper in these new files and categories.
Christmas is coming.
My husband's car is in the shop.
I'm ashamed to be a Canadian every time I hear the words "airport" and "Taser".
I need to bathe the dog.
It's raining. Still.
My hair is thin, limp and lacks any particular style.
Apparently I snore.
I left my work notebook in a gorgeous house, and now I have to wait until someone does a showing or whatever, and plead with them to bring me my notebook, since she will be there...
I ate McDonald's for lunch.
Gah.
I don't like November very much.
