Present Moment

I watched a guy on a street corner the other day. He got there as the “don’t walk” signal kicked in and while I thought he’d go for it anyway, he hesitated. In that brief pause, he missed his opportunity. The light turned red and north/south traffic began to flow. He stood for a sec, visibly twitching, then pivoted on his heel to cross in front of my car. Again, he waited too long and the light changed. Spinning, he was away like a thoroughbred at the races, but having observed his agitated behaviour, I thought, Are you kidding? You can’t wait for two minutes at a traffic light? What-is-the-big-rush?

Same goes for the driver of the big a** truck who changed lanes three times to reach the intersection no further ahead of me because the traffic was literally bumper-to-bumper—and this on a Saturday afternoon when you have to know that it’s gonna be nuts out there. But really, the pedestrian seeking the quickest way across the street puzzled me more. Admittedly, I get miffed if my rhythm is stalled by a mistimed crossing signal, but you know what? It’s fun to stand still for a minute and watch the world zoom by. It pulls me from mindless chaos to mindful presence. At least, with practice, I hope it will.

I learned a wonderful meditation last week, courtesy of Ter’s current philosophical mentor, the marvelously tranquil Thich Nhat Hanh. It’s short and simple, so I’ve remembered and am applying it when required:

(breathe in) Calm

(breathe out) Smile

(breathe in) Present Moment

(breathe out) Wonderful Moment

I can’t meditate in front of a candle—I fall asleep—but I can do it on a street corner. Whenever I feel myself taking off into orbit, I can slow myself down and proceed more peacefully.

Sometimes. Not always. But I’m getting there.

I Love TSN2!

The trouble with following an American hockey team is that Canadian stations rarely broadcast Flyer games unless they’re in the playoffs; however, TSN2 picks up their signal from NBC. Thanks to the Shaw digital box (where there are upwards of 400 stations and nights when there’s still nothing worth watching), this year I have seen more regular season Philly games – sometimes in Philadelphia – than I did when the NHL consisted of 21 teams!

Puck drop is usually around the time I get home, so if Ter comes in and the TV is on, she’s guaranteed to find Basher on the coffee table and me drinking buttered rum tea, warming up my vocal cords for inevitably poor language midway through the first period. It’s nice when the boys win, but I’m just thrilled to see them often enough to match faces with numbers … though looking along the bench the other night, I realized that the majority of the lads are shaggy, strawberry blond, and sporting various degrees of scruff on their toothless mugs.

They’re also clinging to third spot in their division, behind the New York Rangers and doomed to play them in the first round if things remain as they are. They were in NY when this pic was taken (and lost the game, ^%$&*#), reminding me that, had I spied Ron Duguay instead of Bobby Clarke that fateful day in 1974, I would have been a Rangers fan.

Heartfelt

Ter has lived most of her life by following her heart. One day someone asked her if she’s been successful at it and she answered, “Not always.”

On the surface, it may look that way. Life doesn’t always go to plan. You fall in love with a guy who breaks your heart. You give your best to a job where others advance by manipulating themselves into promotions. You watch other people living the white picket fence dream and having the nerve to bitch about it. Take enough detours and hit enough dead ends, and eventually you’ll wonder where you went wrong.

But did you? Can you ever truly err by heeding the keeper of your little voice? Life does go to plan, just not to the plan you imagine once you’re old enough to believe that you need one. Truth is, people are born with plans. That’s the point of this mortal exercise. If the plan you imagine coincides with the one you came with, great. If not, then you consider yourself a failure. But are you? Really?

In a world where all our priorities are skewed, you might think so. How sad is it when a loving, generous, trusting, inherently good person questions herself for being loving, generous, trusting and inherently good? When she’s not locked in mortal combat with herself, Ter is my example of how to get it right. Truly, she has suffered for it: the guy broke her heart, she was stonewalled at work, she took a while to realize that the white picket fence was only the dream she was promised if she did everything right. It wasn’t actually her dream.

At her core, in her innately wise moments, I think she is doing just fine in the plan department. She has a strong set of personal values that have steered her through all manner of adversity. She is by no means perfect (sorry, bud), but throughout the hardest moments of her life, she has remained impeccable. She hasn’t done that by following her head. She’s done it by following her heart … and in no way can that be called anything other than successful.

Happy Anniversary!

Comfortable Rebellion is a year old today. Ordinarily, I’d do a rejig to get it back on track, but it seems to be evolving in line with my original intention, which was to have it evolve in line with me. I set out to write about writing, about process and creativity, and to share some of my work. I also meant to write about Stuff in a positive and encouraging way. I aimed to make a warm, safe place online where you could drop by for a cup of tea and a story, perhaps for a bit of lively debate or a review of what I’m reading/watching/listening to in hope that you’ll be inspired to try it yourself.

There’s a lot of me in this blog simply because I only have my own experience from which to draw. Where possible, I’ve related items culled from other sources (admittedly peppered with Ru-isms), mixed with family history, philosophical concepts, sport scores, and the occasional WTF??? During the course of CR’s first year, I have written two lengthy short stories, a few really short stories, revised some existing works, and am still hacking away at the novel. If I ever suspected that blogging was cutting into my writing time, looking at the post count kinda makes me look whiny(er). In truth, this past year has been an adventure in creativity, in finding ways to put a positive spin on life’s little negatives (though I’m still unconvinced that gum surgery was necessary for my spiritual development) and, as an unforeseen bonus, in inspiring my siblings and sire to start Google accounts! I didn’t intend on writing for an audience, but since I have one … thank you all for coming by. You have helped to keep me writing.

Gluten-free birthday cake, anyone?

“When I Regained Consciousness”

When I regained consciousness, the world was home to more people than it could sustain. Poverty, disease and violence ruled the overcrowded cities. Revolution raged in pockets around the globe. Industrial waste poisoned the water and polluted the air. Chemicals punched holes in the atmosphere and forced Nature to greater extremes to balance the climate. Numberless indigenous species were exterminated in the relentless pursuit of progress.

When I regained consciousness, fear fought with despair and love was a commodity. The fate of millions was decided by a faceless quorum whose names were known by none. Success was dictated by status. Too few had too much while too many had too little. Fortunes were made and economies destroyed by virtual digits darting through cyberspace.

When I regained consciousness, the Canucks were out of the playoffs and the Maple Leafs were in.

When I regained consciousness, the sky was a bright polished blue. The smell of fresh cut grass was as sweet as the childrenʼs laughter on the breeze that tickled my skin. The cherry trees bloomed and the chickadees chirped. The rain was cool as it danced on the pavement and the sunrise made me pause to marvel at the colours in the clouds.

When I regained consciousness, everything was the same.

* * *

Another writing exercise, this one prompted by the phrase that became its title. I have lately become too aware of misery, seen too many news items about all that is wrong with the world. It started to overwhelm me—probably because I have another %?$/&*ing cold—and just as I felt myself being sucked into the vortex, I heard a little bird chirp and realized that I was missing a gloriously sunny spring day.  A shift of focus and this piece was born.

You cannot change anyoneʼs misery but your own. Stay conscious.

“Black and Blonde” (Conclusion)

The cartridge took her in the chest. She staggered but held her ground, her face falling in disbelief. There was a wisp of smoke, the smell of gunpowder, then the flare ignited within her and she screamed.

Raymond bellowed and yanked the knife from Jett’s shoulder. Black swung and aimed as he made to lunge. “There’s one more in here, pal.”

The threat worked. Raymond stopped. Clare had begun to burn. Stalled in the act of dying, she stood fully conscious with her skin lit like a paper lantern. The wound in her chest steamed and spat blood. She turned wide eyes to Black and stretched a hand toward him. “Ariel …”

He swallowed hard. Raymond stepped toward her. Black’s voice stopped him. “Don’t, or you’ll go down with her.”

“You would be wise to wish me that foolish,” Raymond snarled.

Clare screamed again. The flare was eating her from the inside out, burning away at muscle and internal organs. She folded to her knees and began to scream in earnest; piercing, feral shriek after shriek as her body collapsed in upon itself. Smoke rolled from her gaping mouth, leaked from her nose and ears. The last thing Black saw before he grabbed Tess and bolted was the hideous, squelching pop of her eyes. Red flame shot from the sockets and she fell forward to the floor. Raymond let out a roar of anguished rage. Black pulled Tess to her feet and pushed her ahead of him through the door.

“Go!”

She ran for the stairs with Black on her heels. He hit the fire alarm as she reached the door. The bell went off and the sprinklers kicked in; the ensuing confusion made it impossible for Jett to follow them.

They pounded down twelve flights of stairs, swinging off the rail at every landing. Hotel guests in everything from evening clothes to bathrobes trickled into the stairwell on each floor; Tess ran headlong into an old woman with a cane and Black had to stop and right her before they could go on. The growing stream of guests frustrated their escape and there was little comfort in knowing the chase would be hampered as well. He tried not to think about Clare.

They filtered onto the pavement with the rest of the crowd at the front of the hotel. Black took hold of Tess’s hand to keep her from straying. Sirens wailed in the distance. A police cruiser pulled into the alley to see what was going on. There was no sign of Raymond or Jett. Tess jerked on Black’s hand. “Let’s go.”

People were coming from all directions to see what was happening at the Four Seasons. No one took note of the couple in their thirties as they strolled hand in hand to the end of the block and turned the corner.

* * *

Aurora set them up with a buddy of hers on the strip, well away from the waterfront where Raymond and his gang were sure to go looking. The room wasn’t any higher-end than the room Black had called home, but it would do until they could get out of town. And getting out of town was their only option. Black had committed the unpardonable sin of killing one of his own. Not only would the mortals be after him, now the vampires would be, too.

Tess wanted to go home. “You can’t,” he told her. “It’s not safe.”

“What about after sunrise?”

He shook his head. “Raymond has mortal cronies like I do, but his are more dangerous.”

Her eyes filled with tears—and allowable offense since she had been so brave at the hotel. “All my stuff is there.”

What she meant was all her memories of Travis were there, but that wasn’t something Black could help her with. “You’ll have to carry him in your heart, sugar. He’s gone, and unless you want to join him, you can’t go back.”

She wiped her eyes with her fingers before the tears fell. The amethyst on her left hand sparkled darkly in the dim light. “I guess I’ve screwed up both our lives.”

“Looks that way.”

“You think I should have let it alone, don’t you?”

He gave her a look that she couldn’t miss, even through his sunglasses. It earned a reluctant smile, and she ventured closer to the corner where he sat slumped on the floor.

She knelt before him. “I have to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“What she said about Travis, about him wanting to be with her before he died. Did you believe her?”

“Nope.”

His answer surprised her. He saw hope leap in her eyes, then die back when it occurred that he was trying to spare her feelings.

“I believe that they had a relationship before he met you,” he said, sitting forward, “but I think that she came back for him and he didn’t want to play.”

“Why not?” she whispered.

“Because he loved you, Tess. I saw it in every stroke of every drawing. You were the girl for him, and not even Clare could make him break the commitment. I’m sorry that he died for it, but that’s what I think happened.”

“That’s no reason to kill someone. It’s so petty.”

“It’s easy to kill over petty things when you’ve lived for centuries.”

“Then I never want to live that long.”

He smiled. “That’s too bad, sister. You’ve got potential.”

Her eyes widened so much that an errant tear spilled. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Because you saved my ass at the hotel. You did everything right, just the way I told you to. You were great, Tess. I’d have you at my back any day.”

She blinked another tear from her lashes, but he could see that she was grateful for the praise. “You saved my butt, too,” she pointed out. “If you hadn’t had that knife in your boot—”

He waved her off. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done now. It’s over. But it won’t help with the matter of suicide. You still can’t prove anything to the police.”

“I know.” She sounded sheepish. She glanced away, then back to his face. Her own was earnest. “You understand, though, don’t you? I had to do it. I had to know the truth. I loved him so much, I just—” She bowed her head and finally broke, sobbing into her cupped hands. Black leaned over and pulled her between his legs, cradling her in all fours while she vented her grief and anger in tears. He laid his cheek against her fluffy blonde hair and closed his eyes to do a little grieving of his own.

When she had quieted, they sat together in silence. The sky brightened outside the window, turning a crystalline shade of mauve that matched the reflection of Tess’s pink shirt in her blue eyes. She sat curled against him with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. She felt good, solid. Real. She smelled good, too.

“You owe me a dossier,” he said.

Her head moved but didn’t tip up to let him see her face. “I have a confession to make,” she said slowly.

He almost groaned. “Don’t say it. I’m already depressed at how gullible I am.”

“I’m sorry.” She sounded sincere—but her life was wrecked as well.

“It’s okay,” he sighed. “I’ve spent my whole life at the mercy of wily women.”

She almost laughed; he felt it in her staggered breath. “But I owe you ten grand,” she reminded him. “I can deliver that.”

He thought for a minute, watching the mauve sky shift to azure. It was pleasant here despite the shabby room and the knowledge that he was now officially on the lam. He wasn’t as upset as he had imagined he would be over losing Clare. It was actually a relief to be free of her. He had done more than avenge Travis by shooting her. In a funny way, he had finally avenged the peasant boy she had tormented for as long as he could remember.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he told Tess. “This one’s on me.”

THE END

July 15, 2001

Spring is Sprung

Daffy daff. I wondered why this one grew with its back to the sun until I realized that, like a trumpeter heralding the king, its job is to announce the royal presence. A new day, a new season, a new year, a new cycle.

Spring officially arrived in a blustery sunny burst of hail yesterday morning. Victoria weather is always a mixed bag. One minute pouring, the next minute blindingly bright, always windy, then … ye gods, is that hail? The sky holds everything from gulls hanging on the updraft to clouds so dense that light bends around them. Don’t like what you’ve got? Wait five minutes. It will change—and if not, the gods made you adaptable. So adapt.

Hands up, everyone who knows yesterday was also International Happiness Day. Another important date, like Random Acts of Kindness Week, that got no media attention. I only know about it because Ter, despite her present obsession with “Where in the World is Malaysian Air Flight 370?”, has chosen to receive—gasp!—positive (?!) headlines on her FB newsfeed and continually flips me links to keep me inspired. (I am not insensitive to the MA370 mystery, by the way; I’m as baffled and suspicious as anyone, but life must go on for those whose lives can go on.) It’s preaching to the converted, but I voted among the 87% who believe that true success is based on “happiness and wellbeing” rather than “money and stuff”. I will always have what I need and I will always be loved. Excellent starting points from which to build.

Today is “Ru Happiness Day”. Despite slogging through my second cold in two months, I am safe, warm, plugged into a green tea IV, and following my bliss. Yep, that’d be writing. Whether it be blog posts, handwritten notes for a new short story, or trying to keep a young man’s fancy from jumping the gun in the novel, I am doing what I love to do best. Playing with words. Describing pictures. Transcribing conversations. Forgetting to eat. Disregarding the time. I do have the finale of True Detective on tap over lunch, but other than that, spring has sprung, the day is mesmerizing … and my back is to the window, my face bathed in the sickly blue glow of the monitor, and my gyokuro imperial green tea is just about steeped. Watch out, cold symptoms.

Happiness abounds.

Food Porn 4 - Drop Cookies

anyone for white chocolate/cranberry?

We had white chocolate left over from Christmas and I needed new tea treats, so Ter suggested substituting gluten-free flour for AP in our favourite cookie recipe. Recalling lessons from our first GF attempt, we mixed up the batter, dropped it by tiny teaspoons eight to a sheet pan, baked them for 12 minutes exactly and OMG did they turn out well!!!

Thin, crispy, buttery, sweet—YUM! I like crispy cookies and these guys donʼt flag for a second. They freeze well, dunk well, heck, they act just like regular cookies unless you like them chewy … but we put enough white chocolate in ours that when it melted it got kind of chewy, so win-win!

I fear in the long run this diet will prove that you can be gluten-free and still put on weight.

Handwriting ...

.. or writing by hand, otherwise known as longhand, in which I used to write before I bought my first computer in 1994. At the time I thought it would make writing easier, but has it?

Erin Morgenstern’s blog on the 13th referenced an article by Daniel Kraus (read it here) about the joys of writing by hand and the agony of writing by computer. Curious, I clicked over and was inspired by a number of contributing writers to get back in touch with the organic over the mechanical method of wordplay.

I once stockpiled reams of loose leaf paper and Shaeffer ball point refills, but I wrote by hand the way I write by rig: chronologically with no tolerance for errors. If I misspelled a word or disliked a sentence, I’d trash the whole page and copy everything previous to the offending item (not fun when the goof occurred at the bottom of the flipside). Even then, I edited as I wrote, so given how much energy was expended redoing what had already been done for the sake of a pristine page, going electronic eliminated the anxiety of gaffing and enabled me to keep the page clean.

I also ceased to write my journal, and correspondence stalled until I met Nicole a few years later. I’d rarely scrawled more than a sticky note before I started blogging in 2013. That’s when I discovered anew the practical joy of composing by hand. Knowing a post will be transcribed has freed me from the anxiety over keeping the page perfect. When drafting for CR, I’ll cross things out, scribble in the margins, draw arrows and asterisks, black out whole sentences—and spelling? HOO KARES? I’ll get it right in the final, no thanks to spellcheck, either.

“Computering” has made it easier for my crippled paws to keep up with my brain, so I’ll never say that longhand trumps a desktop except that it has an advantage in the mobility department. I see people plugged in at Starbucks, texting their thumbs numb or tapping out characters on a laptop’s cramped keyboard, but I absolutely love the sensual flow of a Sharpie nib over a sheet of bleached bond. Though my precondition makes writing by hand uncomfortable—and illegible—after a while, I’m intrigued enough by the challenge to try writing a story by hand and see how/if it differs from blasting it onto a screen. Every writer has a preference, of course, and I think I know what mine is, but I’ve begun making notes since my memory has grown less reliable. Could be these old-fashioned fuddy-duddies may be on to something …

Make ʼem Laugh

The world got a little darker yesterday. David Brenner, my favourite comedian of all time, passed away from cancer at the age of 78. He was a ground breaker in the 70s, with a true gift for pointing out the absurdities in life.

I loved his south Philly accent, his flashy style and big Buick grin; he laughed at his own jokes and to this day, many of his quotes remain relevant; proof that genuine humour is truly timeless.

Regrettably, I lost sight of him over the past twenty years, though I did reacquaint myself with him via YouTube in 2011. I had also bookmarked his website with every intention of visiting on occasion. Just two days ago, I referred to his story about how the female mosquito doesnʼt buzz, but as she is the biter, if youʼre lying in bed on a hot summer night and you hear nothing, be afraid. I have no idea if thatʼs a fact, but the laughs were undeniably real. So many have rooted in my memory, so many belly laughs and hysterical tears. I remember more of his jokes than I do of anyone elseʼs (with the possible exception of my younger older brother). Thereʼs the legacy, right? That his humour is part of my history and part of my joy. A lot of people will be grateful that he lived.

Count me among them.

“Black and Blonde” (Part 7)

Clare was waiting for him in her suite at the Four Seasons. She had just come from the shower when he arrived at the door; she answered his knock wearing a loose terry robe bearing the hotel crest on the breast pocket. Her hair was wet, slicked back from her face to accentuate the prominent angle of her cheekbones. She grinned, pleased. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you.”

He brandished an old Army issue duffle bag. “I had to pack my gear.”

Her grin broadened over jagged white fangs. “Then you’re coming with me.”

“Make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

She caught him by the waistband and yanked him over the threshold, making him drop the bag and kicking the door closed behind him. “How’s this for starters?” she growled into his mouth. She pinned him against the door and wriggled free of her robe as her hands worked him out of his jeans. It was like being hit by a meteor: he saw stars, felt nothing, then every nerve lit up like a sparkler. Whenever he imagined himself accustomed to senses amplified by immortality, Clare proved him wrong. She took him higher and dropped him further than should have been possible. In his lucid moments, he wondered if it was in him to foil her—but lucid moments were few and far between when she was in his arms. The force of her nature overpowered his every time; he obeyed her because he didn’t know how to disobey her … and wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

“Clare—”

“Don’t talk.”

“Clare, I—”

She sank her claws into the tender flesh of his belly and he gasped. He felt her smile against his open mouth, felt her hands slip deep into his jeans. He tried to drive her back a step, stumbled over the duffle bag and went to his knees. Clare went down beneath him, laughing, snaking those long legs around his hips. Black gave up. Give her what she wants, he thought on the downward thrust, then she can lie to me and I’ll believe her and we’ll both be happy.

If only that were true.

She put on a good show. She broke a sweat on him and lay back sated, flinging her arms wide though her legs remained coiled around him. They hadn’t made it beyond the little alcove at the door before the wrangling had started. God knew what the neighbours had heard. He tried to get up but she locked her legs and held him in place, rolling her hips under his. “You like?”

He shook his head, fighting the creeping tingle at the base of his spine. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

She released a gale of crazy laughter. “That’s the beauty of it, Ariel. You can’t die.”

Oh, yes I can, he thought. He lowered his head and nipped at her breast. She made a noise of vague protest, urging him to violence but he didn’t take the cue. “We have to talk.”

“Not now. I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel you inside me. It’s so good, we should have stayed together from the start.”

“Yeah, it’s good, but we have to talk. So let me up.”

“Yes, Clare, do let him up. I want to hear what he has to say.”

Black swore aloud, recognizing the gravelly drawl. A pair of polished patent boots had appeared by Clare’s head, but Black didn’t bother lifting his to see who owned them. Instead, he looked accusingly at Clare. She stared back, revealing nothing—but she let him up.

Raymond bent to help her to her feet. Black used the opportunity to get up and shove everything back into his jeans. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, dryly.

The silken smile flashed. “Surprise.”

“Why do I have the feeling this isn’t the last one of the evening?”

“How astute of you, Ariel. Why don’t you tell Clare why you’re really here?”

“You tell her, then we’ll both know.”

Clare tried to look puzzled, but her close proximity to Raymond betrayed her. She knew why Black had come, and was worried enough to have called on her maker. Black saw no reason to hedge. He reached into his jacket and showed her the photo of Travis. “You know this guy.” It was not a question.

“I know a lot of guys,” she said. “Why do you care about this one?”

“He’s been dead for six months now, but there’s some debate about whether or not it was suicide. I don’t think it was. I think you killed him.”

Her jaw dropped. “You bastard; how dare you!”

“I dare because I know you. He was your type, for one thing. You’ve always had it for pretty boys with problems and when you met him, this boy had plenty. What I don’t understand is why you came back for him. Your usual style is to leave them wanting more.”

A knock came at the door before she could reply. “Answer it,” Raymond said.

Black nudged the duffle bag to one side and opened the door. Tess stood in the hallway. She had exchanged her jeans for roomy fleece pants that matched her sweatshirt, and the shell pink outfit made her look small and vulnerable. Jett the vampire loomed behind her. He grinned at Raymond. “I found her downstairs.”

Raymond came forward like a host welcoming the guest of honour to a party. He smiled warmly, took Tess by the hand. “Come in, my dear. It’s time that we met face to face, don’t you agree?”

She didn’t glance at Black as Jett steered her into the suite. Jett did. Black knew instantly that not all of them were going to get out of this alive. “You know him?” he asked Tess.

She shook her head. “Ah,” Raymond cooed, “but I know so much about you, little thing. You’ve been a very naughty girl, spying on Ariel. Not too smart, either, from the look of it. He wasn’t your best bet.”

“I don’t know about that,” she replied steadily. “He’s brought me to you.”

Raymond looked condescending. “And now that you’re here …?”

“I want to know which one of you murdered my lover.”

Raymond laughed. “What makes you think any of us murdered anyone?”

“You gave me the first hint,” Black told him. “You changed the subject when I asked if you knew who might have seen Travis before he died. Then you told me way too much about the blonde on my tail. You couldn’t have known that she suspected a vampire was responsible for her lover’s death unless she had told you herself.”

“You’re only guessing,” Clare spoke up. “You don’t know for sure.”

He rounded on her. “And you finished up by appearing on cue, hellbent on getting me out of town when you haven’t given a rat’s ass before now. You don’t want me with you, Clare. I’d be with you now if you did.”

“You can still come with me,” she said. “I want you to come with me.”

“I’d like to,” he said truthfully, “but it’s not going to happen. See, you and I don’t share the same point of view on very many things. You’ve always considered people as playthings; little mice to bat between your paws until you nail one with a claw. Well, sugar, you’ve nailed me one too many times. Tess, here, has offered me ten grand to take you out for Travis’s murder, and that’s the sort of offer I find hard to refuse.”

Clare was appalled. “Ten thousand? Is all you think of me?”

“Oh, no, honey, I think a lot less.”

Raymond drew Tess against his chest and embraced her from behind, placing his hands square on top of her breasts. His eyes gleamed on Black. “I’ll give you ten times that to take out this troublesome little thorn. She’s doomed anyway, and you would be so much more merciful than me.”

Black studied Tess’s face. She was pale but resolute, and though he expected her to bring up the dossier, she stayed silent. Even when Raymond’s fingers closed on her breasts, she gave no sign that it bothered her. Hang in there, honey, he thought, don’t let me down. “Maybe Jett would like her,” he suggested.

Raymond frowned, brushing his chin over the top of her head. “She’s far too delicate for Jett. Mortal women tear so easily, don’t they, big fella?”

Jett smirked. “I don’t mind.”

“I do,” Raymond replied, matter-of-factly. “This room is rented.”

“Let me have her,” Clare said. “Then I’ll have the pair.”

“Ah, but then poor Ariel loses his commission. What will it be, Ariel? Ten or ten times ten?”

Black’s eyes were fierce on Clare’s face. Even through his shades, she felt the weight of his stare. She set her jaw and turned to him, brown eyes faintly triumphant. She saw no way out for him or Tess. They had gambled and lost. “You did it,” he said flatly. “You killed Travis.”

She smiled.

“Why?” Tess burst out. She gripped Raymond’s wrists in white-knuckled hands, holding him to her breasts whether he wanted it or not. “What did he ever do to you?”

Clare turned her lazy eyes to Tess. “Oh, lots of things, in the beginning. Wonderful things. When we first met, we had great fun together—so much that I suppose he never got over it. When we met again six months ago, he wanted to resume the relationship, but I was done with him. I didn’t mean to kill him. He forced it on me.”

Black watched Tess crumble in Raymond’s arms. She tried to stay composed, but Clare’s venom was more effective than a rattlesnake’s. The colour drained from her face, and she seemed to shrink. “That’s not true.”

“Trust me, dearie. There isn’t a mortal alive who can be satisfied with just a little.”

Tess’s hands clenched on Raymond’s wrists. Her eyes closed, and for a second Black believed all was lost. He was on the point of saying he would take her when she suddenly doubled over and drove an elbow deep into Raymond’s gut.

Raymond released her with a surprised woof; she dropped, rolled and pulled the flare gun from the makeshift holster Black had strapped to her ankle before leaving the house. She tossed it blindly in his direction. Jett moved to intercept it and took a knife in the shoulder for his effort. Black caught the gun and aimed it at Clare, freezing her before she could get to Tess. “Get behind me,” he snapped at the blonde, and she scurried to obey.

Raymond had recovered and was warily eyeing the gun. Clare faced the barrel head on. “You don’t have the balls,” she said.

“Surprise,” he retorted—and fired.

to be continued ...

“Butter Cream”

She lived a life of butter cream, of frothy parties and fizzy cocktails, confectionery clothes and candy shoes. Her world was bright with dragée stars, sugar moons and peppermint frost. She shone in jewels and jazz and paparazzi snaps, nibbled on marzipan days and dark chocolate nights. She was the bomb, fresh and new like a birthday cake on a crystal plate.

“Pristine perfect,” the card proclaimed in ivory vellum edged with gold.

“Flavour of the month,” said the inside voice.

Then the whispers came like summer rain and melted all her butter cream.

* * *

Many writing exercises suggest creating something from a random phrase or song title or something, and a few days ago I noticed a flower that reminded me of butter cream. I liked the phrase so much that I thought, write a piece around it. It took me three days to get up the nerve tackle the exercise and this is what emerged.

I’m pretty sure I’ve been somebody famous/infamous in a previous life; I keep writing about fallen women.

Fine Tuneage

pretty much the whole catalogue with a few exceptions

The Father of My Unborn Children is a musician, so is it ironic that an interview on his book tour put me back in touch with my musical history? He did a session in the Google Authors series while promoting his most-excellent autobiography, and during the Q&A, he admitted to a fondness for the old vinyl LP. He still owns a vast collection (and clearly hires someone else to do the heavy lifting when relocating it) though, naturally, he doesn’t listen to everything as frequently as he once did. He likened it to a vintage wine collection, when something is opened and savoured as the mood dictates. After he’s done with whichever Bowie or Roxy album, it goes back into storage for a few years, until he feels like hearing it again.

Most of the vinyl I owned was sent to consignment as I converted to compact discs; the medium is less important to me than the content, so if an LP made it to my CD case, it was a keeper.

During my recent bout of “writing is not meant to happen”, I rediscovered my joy in the Alan Parsons Project. Rightly or wrongly, I associate my sizeable collection of their work with my younger older brother, who introduced me to the concept of orchestrated rock and album-oriented FM radio when I was a teenager. I vividly recall the instance when he started his car and “Hyper Gamma Spaces” (an instrumental from 1977’s “Pyramid”) poured from the souped-up speakers, but I’m sure he had me hooked before then. In any event, I became a fan, collected all the APP albums I could find, and have revisited them in sequence over the past few weeks. And I’ve loved it—so much that it finally occurred to me that there might be a website.

Alas, the Project broke up and co-founder Eric Woolfson passed away in 2009, but Alan Parsons himself continues to produce and record new material. His website is now bookmarked and I am trying to get over the fact that “I Robot” (my favourite after “The Turn of a Friendly Card”) has just been remastered, expanded, and re-released in a 35^th anniversary edition! 35 years? Really? Playing it last week, I closed my eyes and was immediately transported to the couch in my parents’ living room, flaked out in one corner with my older older brother in the other, both of us floating on the groove of the LP’s first release. The memory was so clear that it couldn’t have been that long ago … could it?

The studio technology, so sparkly and new at the time, is dated and sounds a little clunky nowadays, but the albums themselves remain a magical link to my past, to time shared with both of my brothers, and my own visions of a creative future. Now that I’ve heard them all again, back to the wine cellar they go, to be opened and enjoyed again some time down the road.

Spring Forward

*sigh*

I am reminded of a quote by pirate Captain Jack Sparrow:

“The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem.”

Every spring, I am faced with Daylight Savings Time. Every spring, I despise it for days in advance and fight it for days afterward. This spring (this weekend, in fact), I have tried to roll with it, but old habits die hard and losing that hour in the morning really does mess with my chemistry, biology and mathematics.

My spirit doesn’t care. My body most definitely does, and my mind is practically lathered with it. Life is confusing enough; why must we confuse it further by playing with the clock? Ours is the only dimension where time matters, and boy, do we make it count. Aside from the almighty dollar, time is the thing that rules us. We’re always watching the clock, scheduling appointments, afraid we’ll be late, forgetting to set the PVR or to watch what we’ve recorded because we can’t find the time, stressing with insomnia because the alarm is going off in two hours and forty-seven minutes … ARG!

So, am I making this a problem? Or am I simply acknowledging that there is a problem? I am never happier than when I lose track of time. My natural rhythm takes over and I eat when I’m hungry, sleep when I’m sleepy, and write until I’m faint from lack of one or the other.

My intention is always to spend less time being aware of the time, so how do I get past DST?

I guess I’ll just have to give myself time.

True Detective

Eight episodes in and I’m glad I stayed with this series. It’s followed a predictable pattern in a most unpredictable way, and now that the timelines have met and we’re all in the present day, I’m enjoying the rapport between the main characters of Marty Hart and Rustin Cohle. Reunited after a bitter blowout in 2002, they’re finding their way as a team while catching up on each other’s lives. Hart (played to macho-jerk-tight-jawed perfection by Woody Harrelson) isn’t nearly as interesting as Cohle (Matthew McConaughey), but the chemistry between them works better now than when they first met to solve a murder in 1995.

The best moments are the ones when I can’t decide which is better: the line or the delivery. An offhand comment about art leads Hart to ask if Cohle has started painting, and Cohle’s reply, dryly delivered in a smoky Texas drawl, is priceless: “Nah—it’s too late to start something new, I reckon. Life’s too short to get good at any one thing …” and if there was more, I was laughing so hard I missed it.

Well-written and equally well-performed dialogue can redeem a so-so plot in my view, so even though I’ve so far stayed a step ahead of the story, the gold star performances of the leads—McConaughey in partikilar—is keeping me engaged.

I won’t mourn when the season ends, though. It’s sitting in GoT’s time slot on Sunday night, so when TD is done on March 28, my world will be restored come April 6!

“Black and Blonde” (Part 6)

Tess met him at the appointed place, pulling up to the curb in a white BMW that blended into traffic about as well as she had blended into the bar crowd two nights ago. The top was down; he had her put it up before he got into the passenger seat. “Couldn’t you have been a little less obvious with the wheels?” he grumbled, slamming the door.

“This is Travis’s car. Mine is in the shop. Where to?”

“Just drive where I tell you. Did you bring the books?”

She nodded, checking her blind spot before pulling into the street. “In the back seat. He had tons more, but those were the last.”

Black reached behind her seat and hauled a tote bag full of hardcover sketchbooks from the floor. He counted six spines with his fingers. “Go left here,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere. It’s harder to hit a moving target.”

She glanced at him, alarmed. “What does that mean?”

“You’ve been made, sugar. I might not be the fizziest beer in the two-four, but I’ve got friends who are. I visited one last night. He told me all about you. Well, not everything; just that you’ve been tailing me for some weeks and it’s a concern.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Much as I hate to admit it, since any trouble you’re in is trouble for me. Turn right at the next street.”

She guided the car as directed. Black pulled out one of the sketchbooks and started flipping pages. The drawings were good, mostly of women in various stages of undress. The faces had been dashed out in the fewest strokes, yet he recognized Tess in more than a few racy positions. Travis had stayed true to her build as well; her curves were deeper and sexier than the contours of the others he had drawn.

“Did you tell your friend about the safe deposit box?”

“He’s a bright boy. He figured it out.”

She hit the brakes to avoid a tabby cat that streaked across the road. Black stuffed the book into the bag and pulled out another one, dated a month before Travis had died. Tess started the car rolling again.

“Why did you want to see the sketchbooks? Are you looking for someone?”

“Maybe.”

“A vampire?”

“Did he work with other models?”

“What do you mean ‘other’?”

Black tapped his forefinger on a sketch of Tess sleeping naked on a sofa. “He did these from memory?”

She flushed a luscious shade of pink. “He had a good memory,” she said, “and a better imagination.”

“He was good,” Black allowed.

“Yeah,” she breathed, “he was.”

Tess drove while Black went through the books. Melissa Etheridge played on the stereo and after a while, Tess asked if she could drop the top on the Beemer again. He agreed because they had gone beyond the city limits and were driving along the coast road. Traffic was light and heading in the opposite direction. His paranoia seemed excessive in such conditions.

“Did Travis make any money doing this?”

“Some. It was half and half between art and the band; sometimes he made more playing, other times he did better drawing.”

“I suppose his life insurance didn’t kick in since the report said it was suicide.”

“That’s not why I’m doing this, Black.”

“Did I say it was?”

“You still don’t believe me, do you? You’re just humouring me.”

“No, I think you might be on to something. That’s what scares me.”

“Why?”

“You can’t call the cops on a vampire. They already think you’re nuts. So what happens if I find the one who killed your boyfriend? What do you expect me to do?”

Her hands clenched on the steering wheel. “I expect you to kill him.”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“No,” she cut in, fiercely. “That’s the deal. You find and kill him, then I destroy the dossier I’ve got on you.”

He scowled at her profile, etched pale and stark against the night flowing past her window. “I can’t kill another vampire. It’s not allowed.”

She snorted. “Since when have any of your kind worried about what’s allowed and what isn’t? Killing humans isn’t allowed, either, pal.”

“You don’t think we’re human?”

“No, I don’t!” she cried. “You forfeit your humanity when you start drinking our blood. It’s a drug for you; the more you get, the more you want until someone finally dies for it. It’s what happened to Travis, I know it is. He got in over his head. He was dumb that way, too sweet and trusting for his own good. He was suckered into dying for one of you, and by God I’m going to see justice done for it!”

She was sobbing as she drove. Black laid a hand on hers where it clung to the leather-wrapped wheel and she flung him off with a sweep of her arm that caught him in the face and knocked his shades off his nose. He swore at her, making a grab for them before they got out the open window.

Too late.

“Fuck!”

She swerved onto the gravel shoulder and stopped the car in a biting cloud of dust. Black opened the door and rolled out with one hand shielding his eyes from the fine silt that sought to blind him. He scrambled alongside the car, scanning through his lashes for the black Ray Bans. Tess got out to look as well.

“Get back in the car!” he snapped.

She ignored him. “I think they landed back here.”

He gave up arguing and sank to his knees by the rear wheel, closing his eyes against the red glare from the tail lights. Stupid eyes; they were so damn sensitive to everything. Clare had laughed at him for keeping them shut while making love, but he couldn’t stand the onslaught of his perfected sight.

“Here you go.”

Squinting, he raised his head. Tess stood before him, holding out his shades. The lenses were tinted so dark they looked opaque. He reached for them; she jerked them away.

“For Christ’s sake, lady—”

“Look up,” she said.

He ducked his head and counted to ten.

“Do you want them or not?”

He muttered a vehement curse under his breath. “Just give me the damn glasses.”

“Come and get them.”

Peering through his lashes, he saw her figure painted in shades of blood. Her hair was a corona of fire, her blue eyes tinted lilac. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, but he saw the curves Travis had depicted so accurately beneath her clothes. She was small but powerful. She’d have made a good vampire.

Now there was a thought.

He shook it from his head and got slowly to his feet. “I don’t like you,” he growled.

“I don’t like you, either,” she said. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“Nothing. It’s what was wrong with them. Give me the glasses.”

She handed them over in silence.

He replaced them on the bridge of his nose and inhaled a shaky breath. “Now take me home.”

* * *

He meant her home, not his. The books in the tote bag had revealed nothing save a promising talent and a love of the female form—one in particular. Not the one he was looking for. The books were too recent. He had to go further back to be sure.

He hoped he was wrong. He doubted that he was.

Tess dropped him off a few blocks from her house and continued home alone. He walked slowly along the sidewalk, spreading his senses outward in search of another’s presence. If any of Raymond’s spies were handy, he wanted to know about it. It was an odd feeling, dropping the shields he had constructed so carefully. The mortal world was noisy and crowded; he had been forced to devise a means of locking out the mayhem before he lost his mind. Timing had been critical and nearly missed. Becoming a vampire had not been easy. Without Clare, he might not have made it.

He was supposed to meet her at the Four Seasons before dawn. She wanted to show him a slice of the life that awaited if he agreed to go with her, and he was tempted to try. If he could find a place where blood ran rich and thick, if he could fool the elite into believing he belonged among them, he could leave the waterfront. He could quit bargaining for blood with poison, quit stealing cash from corpses. Clare could help him find his way, teach him the trick of living in society. He wasn’t dumb. He could fake it. And if he went with her, it would be harder for her to leave him.

But he had to finish with Tess, first.

She had done as he said and parked in the driveway, waiting in the car until he signed it was safe to get out. The house was a cute little character cottage nestled on the property of a main house. A good place for vampires, he thought, noting the lush foliage and thick, droopy trees. Tess led him to the front door and handed him the key.

“Will the neighbours talk?” he asked.

“At this hour, they’re all asleep.”

The deadbolt clicked and Black opened the door. He was met by an aromatic gust of spice-scented air. Gingerbread had been baked that afternoon. “You cook?” he asked, over his shoulder.

She pushed him inside. “I’ll take you to the studio.”

A sun porch had been built onto the back of the house, behind the kitchen. They had converted it to an art studio. Paints and canvases were everywhere; the work in progress on an easel in the corner was a portrait of Travis. He had been a handsome man made irresistible to women by the sweetness Tess had mentioned. She had captured it in his eyes, giving life to a work that was not near finished. “That’s very good,” Black remarked.

“I started it eight months ago,” Tess told him. “I haven’t touched it since.”

He suddenly regretted being so hard on her over the sunglasses.

“The books are over there.” She pointed to a low set of bookshelves against the far wall, crammed with more of the hardcover sketchbooks. They were labelled and arranged in date order; Black found the year he was looking for and pulled the book free.

“When did you meet him?”

“Last spring.”

The book in Black’s hands was dated Jan­­–Mar/99. Before Tess. She wouldn’t have been at Raymond’s New Year’s party. Travis wouldn’t have been clean then, either. He might have been trying, but he hadn’t succeeded yet.

“Have you looked through the older books, Tess?”

“There are too many.”

Black didn’t want to open the book in his hands. There wasn’t much point. But he opened it anyway, hoping for negation and finding confirmation. He recognized the long, limber form sketched in bold strokes on page after page, in pose after erotic pose, unabashedly nude or playing peek-a-boo in slinky designer gowns. Her hair was long and straight, burnished even in black and white, but the siren’s eyes were the same.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to Tess while she clattered around in the kitchen. If he asked to borrow the book, she would be suspicious and he didn’t want that. He would have to manage without the sketches. Then he remembered the photo in his pocket.

He replaced the book on the shelf and took a stool at the breakfast bar. Tess gave him an inquiring glance.

“Let’s talk money,” he said.

to be continued ...