Road Markers

So isn’t it a little eerie that my first F***book “like” as Ruth R. Greig/Writer is Anne Rice/Public Figure, and on the morning of my “liking” her page, the first post I see on my newsfeed is a Happy Birthday to Michael York?

If I believe in coincidence, it’s by another name. Life is full of indicators, little signs that you’re on the right track. That’s how I feel about this FB project “coinciding” with my recent intention to make a career of my writing, which “coincided” with my return to reading the Vampire Chronicles, which put me back in touch with Anne Rice, which has “coincidentally” reminded me of how it all began with Yorkie.

Full circle? Hardly—though it seems that the components sprinkled throughout my development have reappeared at this juncture. It’s good to remember where you started. It’s good to recall the people and the moments that shaped your future. It’s good to look back and see how you got here.

Seeing Yorkie’s face on Ms. Rice’s FB page felt like a little miracle, a nod from the Universe that all is well and there’s nothing to stop my plan from succeeding. Keep it up, Ru. Keep the intention going. Plan like success is inevitable. Get yourself together and watch it unfold. Cherish the reminders, face the challenges (there will be some) and most of all stay out of your own way!

Throughout my life, I’ve had friends and family behind me, encouraging me, supporting me, telling me to get off my duff and make something of my passion. Truth is, I wasn’t ready to make it so. I lacked confidence and direction, and quite frankly, motivation. I didn’t believe that I could make a living by doing something that I love. Lots of people have done it, but not me. Nope, I’d have to stick with the day job if I wanted to pay the bills, and so I did. It’s taken me this long to build enough self-esteem to stand up and declare that I am a writer, that I’m a darned good writer, and that I deserve to be successful at it. I’ve been practicing from the age of fourteen, after all, when I fell in love with Yorkie and first read Interview with the Vampire.

How appropriate that these two vital points in my past appear now, together, as I prepare to step off the edge of the world. Coincidence? What do you think?

Michael, My Michael

He turned 73 on March 27. My first screen love. My only love, really. I’ve had brief infatuations and short term affairs over the past forty years, but he has been my one and only movie star, my enduring romance, my sentimental favourite.

Who knows why? Because I was fourteen when he played D’Artagnan. Because I was newly in pain and looking to escape. Because I loved a good story and he was the passionate if inept hero of a dandy. I wanted to write my own swashbuckler and The Four Musketeers got me started—but he’s played more than one character. He was busy in the 70s, too, playing everything from Shakespeare to science fiction, sometimes a bit of a miscast and other times a perfect fit, but always blond, handsome, and gifted with that golden syrup voice.

I could listen to him speak forever.

It was during something like the sixth or seventh viewing, in the scene where D’Artagnan finds Constance dead and sets out to avenge her, when all the requisite factors combined to awaken the giant. He was the catalyst that kicked my imagination into gear and started me writing in earnest. I wrote about heroes who looked just like him, but I started reading, too. Dumas and the Bard, and George Clayton Johnson—if his film was based on a book, I read the book as well. I saw every movie, staying up late on weekends to catch his earlier work in The Strange Affair and Something for Everyone on TV (the days before video tapes and DVDs). I went to the university for the Franco Zeffirelli double-header of The Taming of the Shrew with Romeo and Juliet. I kept a scrapbook of promo pics and articles and “seen around Hollywood” snapshots. I guess I was a little obsessed with him, with the movies, with the stories, with the fantasies of all three combining to ignite my true passion for the written word.

It was a magical time of intense contrast. Every day was a fight to get mobile, of physio treatments and medical appointments, but every day was also a revelation of new ideas, of literary discovery and expanding imagination. It was truly the best of times and the worst of times, and Michael York was in the middle of it.

I did all the stupid teenaged stuff, but four decades later, despite the aforementioned flings and affairs and rock stars notwithstanding, my heart yet leaps when I hear his voice or see his face. It’s more than the remnant of a schoolgirl crush. It is a comfy blend of respect, admiration and gratitude.

It is also—definitely—love.

“Katie” (Part II)

He turned the sedan around and headed back to the main highway. “I’ll put you in a motel for the night,” he said. “You can catch the bus to Kingston in the morning.”

“It’s awfully kind of you to help me,” she said.

He didn’t even look at her. “I never meant to help you.”

“You mean you didn’t expect to find me in the trunk of the car. Don’t you want to know what I was doing there?”

“I know what you were doing there.”

She bit her lip and turned away to hide the rise of tears. She felt shamed to the marrow of her bones; a poor, pregnant fool whose husband beat her senseless on schedule and made her ride in the trunk of his car. Now this mysterious stranger, her husband’s murderer, was forced to help her not from kindness, but from necessity. The thought of throwing herself from this car occurred and was dismissed for the baby’s sake. It seemed she was safe with this man. There was nothing to fear.

They drove in silence back to town. There were no five star hotels in this neck of the woods; nothing to impress a man who drove a fancy car and picked up strays. He took her to the Fountain Motel off the main drag and bade her stay in the car while he arranged for a room. The bus station was five blocks from here. She could walk it easily in the morning.

He returned with a blue plastic keyring in his hand and got behind the wheel once more. He drove around to the rear and parked in the space outside a door marked “17”. The view from here was of rolling meadow studded with trees. It was a prettier sight than the road through town, and a lot more peaceful.

He got out of the car and retrieved her bag from the back seat. She followed him to the door of the motel room. The musty smell of old carpet and curtains met them at the threshold but a trace of pine cleaner hinted at the cleanliness of the bathroom. There was a double bed, two armchairs at a table and a TV set bolted to the dresser. Everything was a muted moss green or antique gold except for the wood, which was chipped oak veneer. It would do, she thought happily.

“The room is paid for,” he said, dropping her bag on the bed. “Check out before noon and there won’t be a problem.”

She turned at the bathroom door. “Are you leaving?”

He seemed amused by her question—the first real sign of emotion he had registered all night. “I was not planning to stay.”

She started forward, hands out to stop him. “Don’t go, please. Don’t leave me alone.”

He stared at her in bewildered amazement. “I killed your husband.”

“Are you worried that they’ll catch you?”

A corner of the wide mouth twitched. “No.”

“Then don’t leave. Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

He sighed. “Katherine—”

“Just for tonight,” she begged, sensing by his use of her proper name that he might be persuaded to change his plans. “Please.”

His eyes darted to and from the bed so quickly that she would have missed it had she blinked. “I can’t,” he said flatly.

She felt the hot prickle of tears behind her eyes and a wild desperation that alarmed her. “I don’t want to make love with you. I just don’t want to be alone.”

He stood still for a moment. She waited with heart palpitations while he considered his answer. She didn’t know him, didn’t know his name or his family or anything about him except that she wanted to be near him, near his strength and his quiet calm. She felt safe with him and she was loath to let go of that safety.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

He was silent for so long that she thought she might snap under the strain of waiting, then he shut the door. “You must be hungry,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, realizing that she was.

“Tell me what you’d like. I’ll get it for you.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you want?”

When he smiled, it wasn’t much of a smile. She doubted that he was accustomed to doing it, which explained why it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve eaten,” he said.

“Oh. Well, I don’t care really. I can wait until breakfast.”

“Can the child?”

She saw his point. “Maybe not. I guess something with protein might be a good idea. There’s a McDonald’s some ways up the road. I like their Filet-O-Fish.”

“I’ll be back,” he said.

She sat on the edge of the bed and waited. She didn’t know what to do with herself while he was gone; didn’t know what to think or how to behave. She thought she should be a heck of a lot more distraught over what had happened to Dale, but she couldn’t force grief to surface. Maybe she was in shock. Maybe it would hit her in the morning and she would fall to pieces the way she couldn’t just now. Maybe she was dreaming—but she hoped not. Part of her was actually happy; the part she had denied for years, the part that had wished her husband dead.

“Why did you tell the neighbours you were leaving?” he asked while she ate. He had brought her two fish sandwiches and a 7-Up. She would have preferred Coke but she didn’t dare complain.

“I didn’t want them to worry,” she said.

“One of them betrayed you.”

“I know. It must have been Marjorie. She’s as scared of him as I am. Was, I mean.” She braved a glance across the table at him. “Is it gonna be a problem?”

He shook his head with the surety of one who was familiar with such situations. He wasn’t the least bit concerned at having killed a man over a stupid traffic infraction. Her unexpected presence was the wrinkle in his fabric.

“Why did you wait so long to leave him?”

She shrugged with feigned nonchalance, choking down a dry bite of her sandwich. “I was afraid he might kill the baby.”

“You didn’t fear for yourself?”

“Sure I did. I just figured I could handle it if it was just me. But the baby is innocent, you know? It didn’t ask to be born or anything. I have to protect it, don’t I?”

“ ‘It’?” he asked, smiling a little.

She offered a small laugh. “I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“Have you a preference?”

“I’d sort of like a girl,” she admitted shyly. “But, as long as it’s healthy, I don’t mind what it is. Do you have kids?”

He sat back in his chair. His face wasn’t a kind face by any stretch, nor was it particularly warm or friendly. It was a face that made you think twice before you spoke in case the tilted brows angled lower over the eyes and you suddenly found yourself in grave danger. Dale had pissed him off and paid dearly for it. She began to regret having put the question, but then he simply said: “I’m alone.”

“Are you lonely?” she asked.

He got up from the table and walked to the dresser, picking up the remote for the TV. She watched him sit down on the end of the bed and hit the power button. He had removed his leather jacket. His sweater was old and a loose fit. The jeans were split at the left knee. His boots, though, were new. She thought that was strange but she wasn’t about to comment on it. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she had hit a nerve and he had consequently detached himself from the proceedings. She knew the signs from experience. He was warning her to quit now, while he still had control of his temper.

She finished her sandwiches and folded the wrappers before stuffing them back into the bag. “If it’s okay with you,” she said, “I think I’m gonna take a shower before bed.”

He nodded, eyes fixed on the television screen. She noticed as she passed that it was tuned to the program listings and the volume was muted. She wanted to apologize for offending him but was not certain that she had. He didn’t seem upset. He seemed indifferent.

She left the bathroom door ajar. He might not admit to being lonely, but she wasn’t afraid to acknowledge it in herself. She wanted the comfort of knowing he was right outside, that she wasn’t alone in case there had been a terrible mistake and Dale came back to find her. He had done so much for her already, and for all that he was clearly a cold-blooded killer, she felt secure in his company. For the first time in years, she felt protected.

She took her time in the shower, letting the hot water peel the grime and dried sweat from her skin. She used the little bar of motel soap to wash her hair—she had forgotten to pack shampoo and places like this didn’t supply guests with all the luxuries. She kept her mind focused on the job at hand, of shaving under her arms and brushing her teeth; refusing to let herself recall the recent past or anticipate the immediate future. All that mattered was now. All she could handle was now.

She stepped from the tub onto the towel she had spread in place of a bathmat. The half-open door had given steam an escape route and the mirror was only partially fogged. She would have turned her back to it except doing so meant facing the door and she didn’t want him catching an accidental glimpse of her. The TV sound had come on; he was watching Star Trek. If he was engrossed in the show, copping a peek at her probably wouldn’t occur to him, but she didn’t want to risk it.

She scrubbed the damp towel at the roots of her hair, trying to avoid looking in the mirror. Then her eye caught the eye of her reflection and she stalled, locked to her own gaze. Nothing to be afraid of, she thought, curiously intimidated by the wide eyes staring back at her. The girl in the mirror was pretty enough despite the dark circles under her eyes. Her bones were slight and slender beneath pale skin that showed a number of bruises in varying stages of healing. Being pregnant had given her cleavage of a sort; her breasts were still small, but now they were plump with rose-coloured nipples. Below them, the sphere of her belly bloomed full and round as if she had swallowed one of the globes she had studied during geography class in high school. Her belly button was nothing more than a faint thumbprint on the verge of disappearing completely. The babe had taken a few serious blows on her behalf and she wondered now, as she often did, if any permanent damage had been done. It was quiet in there for the moment. Freed from the stress of its mother’s terror, the baby was sleeping.

A soft sob caught her unawares. She saw the girl in the mirror raise her hands to her mouth, then she shut her eyes against the pitiful sight. She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t smart, she wasn’t anything but scared and lost and helpless.

She surrendered to the onslaught of tears, weeping bitterly into her hands until her throat ached with the effort of doing it quietly. She stopped when she felt the air stir at her back and a pair of big hands came to rest lightly on her shoulders. Her tears faded to a hiccoughing halt. She stood immobile before him, afraid to open her eyes.

The hands at her shoulders slid slowly along her arms to cover her hands where she yet held them over her lips. Holding each wrist, he gently pried them from her mouth and pulled them apart so that when she summoned the courage to open her eyes, she saw herself with her arms spread wide like a bird stretching its wings. He stood behind her, his grip loose on her wrists, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. His face was impassive. He had released his hair from its rubber band and it flowed in glorious rippling waves over his shoulders. He looked like a pagan idol. She inhaled a tremulous breath but stayed silent.

He brought her hands together again, pressing her palms flat to her own flesh and guiding them deliberately over the contours of breast and belly and thigh. Her skin shivered in the wake of their combined touch as he repeated the motion. On reaching the tops of her thighs the third time, her hands suddenly shifted to cover his. His wrists were so thick that her fingers could not completely encircle them, but he did not protest. Sneaking a peek in the mirror, she saw that his lids had dropped halfway over his eyes. The irises gleamed darkly between the black lashes and she thought she saw the muscles flicker in his jaw. Sensuously aware of his warmth at her back, she drew his hands up and over the baby, sensing a new element behind the trembling of her skin. She paused for a heartbeat while wisdom debated against desire. Desire won.

To be continued …

Mature Content

Google has made available a “mature content” setting for bloggers who post on their server. I noticed the prompt on my dashboard one day, with further information indicating that, if Google gets any complaints about graphic content, the company will automatically flip the switch on the site. If enough complaints are received, Google may then shut down the site. It seems a step in the right direction, of the big cahunas on the internet attempting to regulate themselves before the government intervenes, and I’m fine with that. I just wonder how they define “graphic content”.

I’m all for censoring myself—I do that before I hit the “publish” button on a post. Then I promptly contradict myself by stating a firm belief in the artist’s right to express him/herself in whatever form he/she chooses. But then the question arises: What is art? And I admit, I’m a little confused about my own work.

I don’t write porn … I don’t think. I dunno; maybe some folks would say that I do. It depends on the setting, the situation, the characters and the relationship. I try to be tasteful about any physical intimacy—even the rough stuff—and if you write about vampires and warriors, at some point you’ll be writing scenes of blood and violence. The skill involved in writing fiction through a filter is no small thing. I do my best, with some success, might I add, but in the end, it’s a little scary to know that my opinion of my work may matter less than that of a reader who has issues.

I considered whether or not to flip the switch and have the site automatically warn visitors that mature content awaits. At this point, I’ve decided against censoring myself that severely. My intention is always good, to send out a positive vibe, tell a compelling story, share a laugh or rant about my hockey team, but as for graphic content residing on this blog, I really must protest.

Fun with F***book

It’s finally happened. In my evolving quest for domination of literary cyberspace, I have joined Darth Ter to create an author page for myself on Facebook. It’s still under construction as I write this post, but on the weekend I sold my soul to start an account and the slippery slope is getting, well, slipperier.

Now I’m considering trading my flip phone for a Smartphone.

One should never say “never”. For years, I resisted the lure of social media because good and decent people are daily sucked into the black hole of technology. Bad enough that I spend more time twiddling my thumbs on the taxpayer’s dime when the network goes down at work, or that I have succumbed to the convenience of the Internet at home. It’s horrifying that texting while driving is now illegal as well as just plain stupid, and public service announcements are begging drivers to leave their phones alone. The need for real time uploads in place of genuine social interaction escaped me, nay, compelled me to rebel with all my might against a force that threatens the very fabric of our human connection. I sat at the coffee house the other day, watching a couple sharing a table—and nothing else. They may as well have been strangers, each was so engrossed in the tiny screen clutched in their respective hands. I dunno; maybe they were conversing with each other via FB, but isn’t it more gratifying to hear the other person’s voice and see their eyes while you’re talking?

The A side, however, makes it possible to spend real time with Nicole in Halifax, my older brother in PEI, and anyone else located outside of Victoria. Getting a virtual hug from Nic is as gratifying as a heart to heart hug from Ter, for obvious reasons. And, truth be told, if I want to follow my bliss and be well paid for writing, I must make myself known by whatever means available. Word of mouth is more powerful than a marketing budget, and it costs the author nothing.

My final rationalization for tripping onto the Dark Side is this: social media is merely a tool. It’s as potent or as harmless as the user wants to make it. Again, we only hear of the cyber-bullying, of malicious viruses and hacking of email accounts. Who’s to say this is the norm? I started this blog to send some good energy into cyberspace, and with luck, I can do the same via my FB page.

I may also become a filthy stinking rich celebrity writer from it, and that will be okay, too.

The Terrible Twos

Happy birthday, blog! You and I have survived two years together and it’s been a ride. Mostly fun, sometimes frustrating, very much a learning experience, and I’m glad I started it all those months ago. Here’s to a third year (or more) of fiction, philosophy and Ru-minating!

But wait, there’s more!

Now Comfortable Rebellion has a sibling on the horizon—the “Ruth R Greig: Author” Facebook page. Still under construction as I try to make the application do my bidding, it’s a sign that I am serious about making this writing gig pay. Social media is a good way to start; I’ve heard too many people say that publishing deals these days come only if an author already has a following. Of course, I have to build that following, but Dr. King said you needn’t see the whole staircase; you just have to take the first step. Trust has figured prominently in my vibe of late, so, in the words of Yosemite Sam, I’m a-takin’ it.

Onward, little blog; go forth Author page!

Oh, geez, what’s next? A Twitter account???

Bloomers

Winter continued to thump the Maritimes while the first day of spring out west was just another day. Nicole emailed me last week with a request that I smell a flower or breathe some air for her. I did better. I took the Canon on a flânerie and here’s what I saw on my meandering:

splash o' red

magnolias

a wall of purple

baby blossoms

clusters of sun on a cloudy day

daffodils showing their frilly undies

So blessed to be out west!

With love,

“Katie” (Part I)

If the bus hadn’t been late, she would have been safe. She would have been on it, heading for a new life in a new place as far away from here as a one way ticket could take her. If the bus had not been late.

Dale had caught up to her; had figured out what she meant to do and come to stop her. She had seen the old Buick careen into the parking lot and stop dead in a space reserved for the big Greyhounds, and her skin had gone clammy with fear. She had picked up her bag and made for the ladies’ room, but he had seen her before she reached the door and the look in his eyes had warned her against making a scene. He had been drinking for a while before coming to get her. He had worked himself into the self-righteous lather that always led to violence—for ingratitude, for insolence, for incompetence. It was always her fault that things weren’t the way he wanted them; that the mill had shut down, that the welfare cheques never stretched far enough. She had thought she could have endured indefinitely, until she had skipped her period. That was her fault as well. She was to blame for the mistake of a child he didn’t want and couldn’t afford. For the baby’s sake, she had decided to leave. There had been no choice, really. She had to protect her child at all costs. She had feared for its life every day she had taken to save the price of a bus ticket. Seven months along, she had reached her goal and made the move to leave him.

And the damned bus had been late.

She had thought of throwing herself from the car. He had been raving at her, calling her names and swearing she was in for it while the Buick wove drunkenly toward the highway out of town. She didn’t hear him anymore. She thought only of escape and how to do it. Jumping out at a red light had crossed her mind but the lights had been with Dale and there was no stopping along the main drag. Every light went green as they approached an intersection—a sure sign that she was doomed if she didn’t do something drastic. So she thought about throwing herself from the moving vehicle and running into oncoming traffic; to flag down another motorist who might take pity, or to be struck by one and relieved of her burden that way. It didn’t matter what she did. She knew she was gonna die.

Dale had figured that out, too. He said he could read her mind and she almost believed him. He had pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store and driven around to the loading bay behind the building. Frozen with terror, she had imagined he would finish her there, but he had hauled her from the car’s warm interior and forced her into the trunk. Now she lay curled around her belly in a cramped and frigid darkness that smelled of tires and gasoline, weeping silently and praying for mercy from a God she was sure had abandoned her.

The Buick was a pig. Built in the mid-50s, it lacked shock absorbers and springs made to modern standards. She felt every ripple in the asphalt, every dip in the road; and when corners were taken, she was invariably bruised against a wheel-well. She hoped a policeman might spot the car and pull it over; she might have a chance then. Or maybe Dale would drive into the meridian and flip the car, killing them both. She didn’t think about the baby much. Her fate was its fate. There wasn’t any use in thinking otherwise at this point. Death was the only peace she could guarantee it.

But she didn’t want to die. That was the absurdity. She had to live for the baby; wanted to live for the baby. Wanted to birth it and raise it and love it the way she had once loved its father. She didn’t know the man behind the wheel. He wasn’t the same sweet Dale she had fallen for in high school; who had dropped to one knee when he proposed and brought her flowers every Valentine’s Day and birthday and anniversary for five years before he had lost his job and his confidence. He had always liked his beer, and had occasionally given her a swat or a punch when at his drunken worst. But he had always apologized and she had always forgiven him. Only after the mill closure had things really hit the skids. There was no work, no savings. They had lost the house and the truck. He hated welfare but there had been no choice. He didn’t want her to work. Her job was caring for him—and she didn’t do it all that well. Not anymore.

The sway of the car on the road soothed her a little. She stopped crying and fell into a petrified trance, too afraid to envision what waited at home. She had committed an unpardonable sin by trying to leave him. Her one chance had failed. He would make damned sure she had no second.

The Buick lurched violently to the right and she hit her ankle off the jack. Changing lanes, she thought. They must be nearing the exit to the trailer park. They were getting close to home. She swallowed from a dry mouth and tried not to whimper. He wouldn’t likely use the bat first. If he could knock her out with his fist, she might be spared worse. Playing possum wouldn’t work; he seemed to know when she was faking. But she was so tired and so scared that maybe, if she was lucky, she would faint quickly. But what if he kicked her in the belly?

Her arms cradled the baby. She conjured the words to a lullaby her mother had sung to her and sang them in silence, knowing the babe would hear. They were bonded by blood, each dependent on the other. The baby gave her strength to go on and she would live for the baby. She would. She had to.

Her head hit the side of the trunk as the Buick swung right and bounced a ways as if Dale was driving on the moon. Her heart skipped a beat before it began thundering above the baby’s head. They had stopped. Oh, Lord, they were home.

“Hey, asshole—what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

It was Dale, hoarse with fury. She hadn’t heard the car door open, but he was yelling at someone. She was grateful it wasn’t her. Then she remembered the rifle he kept under the driver’s seat. Cold sweat broke on her forehead. Unsure whether to scream or remain silent, she chose the latter simply because she was afraid to be discovered.

Everything was muffled from inside the trunk. She heard Dale but no one else. Then she didn’t hear Dale. There was some bumping and scraping against the side of the Buick, and it rocked a little on its springs, then there was nothing but the grumble of the engine, still running.

Nothing. No movement, no voices. Nothing.

She lay in paralyzed silence, straining to hear over the motor. Then the motor stopped. She lifted her head and tried to call out, but her voice croaked uselessly. She was about to aim a kick at the side of the car when a key scraped in the lock of the trunk. She froze.

It wasn’t Dale. When the lid lifted, the first thing she saw was the shadow of a man bigger and stronger than her husband. He stood over her, staring, she imagined, though his face was obscured by the darkness. Behind him, the night sky sparkled with the icy fire of a million stars. She smelled the pungent scents of grass and raw earth and realized that, for now, she was saved.

She tried to sit up. She didn’t let herself think on how she must look, battered and bruised from the unceremonious bundling into the trunk of the car. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t meet his eyes for fear of what she might see there. Shock, disgust, pity—she had seen them all before and hated them no less because they were familiar. She looked for Dale instead, relying on him to guide her.

But Dale was dead. The stranger had him by the scruff of the neck, head lolling, limbs dangling loose in their sockets. From the tilt of his head, it looked like his neck had been broken. She didn’t think to ask why or how. She didn’t question what she knew in her heart was true. Dale was dead.

Remarkably, she didn’t scream. Nor did she cry. She simply sat staring at his corpse hanging like meat from the stranger’s left hand. “You killed him,” she said bluntly. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears.

“He cut me off.”

She raised her eyes to his face. They didn’t work so well in the dark; she could barely make out the rough cut angles of cheek and jaw. But the voice was beautiful—a deep, dark baritone spoken so softly that it might not have spoken at all. The voice of God; of an avenging angel. Reality hit her at that instant and her hands rose to cover her face as she burst into frenzied tears.

A large hand took her by the arm and all but lifted her out of the trunk. She stumbled and he caught her, dropping the body at her feet. Unable to face him, she stared instead at Dale, seized by a morbid fascination that demanded confirmation of his end. He sprawled in the grass with his ear laid flat to his shoulder, gazing up at her with blind eyes. “You killed him because he cut you off,” she murmured. She looked over the roof of the car. A late 90s Mercedes sedan stood idling in the swath of the Buick’s headlights.

“He would have killed you for less.”

She turned back to the voice. Its owner towered over her by at least foot; a big, well-muscled man in his very late thirties, broad in the chest and shoulders, slim in the hips and legs. He was dressed in worn blue jeans and a black sweater under a scuffed leather jacket. She wondered if the Mercedes was stolen.

“What are you called?” he asked.

“Katie,” she said automatically.

“That’s a little girl’s name.”

She managed a watery smile. “I never liked it much. I was christened Katherine.”

He said nothing. He let her go and bent to lift Dale’s body in his arms. He was fluidly graceful for one so big; he had the body folded and packed into the Buick’s trunk as neatly as tucking a shirt into a drawer. She saw that his hair was long and secured at the nape of his neck by a rubber band. The tail itself fell to the middle of his back. “Who are you?” she asked.

“We’ll leave it here,” he said, ignoring her question. He turned and she saw his face clearly for the first time. He was powerfully handsome with large eyes and a long, aristocratic nose that flared slightly at the nostrils. His mouth was wide and set in a straight line but his lips were full and soft. He looked like a Roman warrior carved from marble and come to life in order to save hers. “I’ll drive you home.”

“I can’t go home,” she blurted.

His straight black brows rose inquiringly.

“They think I’ve left town,” she explained. “When they find Dale, the cops’ll be after me for questioning and it’s best that the neighbours think I got away beforehand.”

“Where were you going?”

“My aunt lives in Kingston. She said I could come and stay with her.”

“How far?”

“Overnight by Greyhound. I have the ticket in my—” She faltered, realizing that her purse was in the trunk. “It’s in there,” she said, jerking her head toward the Buick.

He understood without being told that her belongings could not stay with the car. “Go and get into mine,” he said.

She didn’t think to disobey. She crossed the grass to the Mercedes and slid into the front seat. It was warm inside. She relaxed gratefully against the leather upholstery, closing her eyes. “It’s all right, baby,” she whispered, lightly stroking her belly. “We’re fine now. We’re gonna be fine.” A few seconds later, her bag was tossed into the back seat and her purse landed on the mat in front of her.

To be continued …

“Katie” (Preface)

Another gem from the archive starts tomorrow. It was written in 1999, inspired by a Tragically Hip song titled “Locked in the Trunk of a Car”. What an odd title, and not being a Hip fan, to this day I have no idea what it means, but at the time, I took it literally. I also knew someone who owned an 1950s Buick, a big boxy monstrosity with tons o’ room in the boot. And, perhaps a little frustrated by the rudeness of other drivers, I entertained a twisted fantasy about road rage. With all that in mind, a voice began to murmur in my head and Katie’s story emerged.

It’s a little dark (big surprise), but it ends with hope. There is kindness of a sort, and love to a degree. I like this one because I liked Katie. She stayed long enough to give me this tale of her experience, then drifted off with no forwarding address. As for her unlikely saviour, this was one of my first “real time” encounters with a character who some perceive as a villain, but every villain has a heroic moment and this moment was his.

Enjoy.

Food Porn VIII

“Go With the Pho”

“Neddie, have a noodle.”

So says the villainous Hercules Grytpype-Thynne to our hapless hero, Ned Seagoon, in the Goon Show’s China Story. This line actually pops up in many of the GS scripts, and in some of the Greig family banter as well. It’s one of my favourites because I love noodles. I had no idea how much I love them until I discovered pho.

Pronounced “pha” (I think), it’s a Vietnamese minestrone, a gorgeous collection of meat, scallions, crispy-fried onions and rice noodles served in a stunningly simple broth alongside a plate of bean sprouts, sweet basil, lime and sliced jalapeno peppers. I use the lime and basil, squirt in a fair amount of sriracha chili sauce, and leave the sprouts to Ter. I always order it when trying out a new Vietnamese restaurant; like the bacon/cheese at a burger joint, noodles are my yardstick.

Restaurants come and go so fast that it’s best not to get attached to any one dish, though it can also be said that noodles are alive and well in Victoria. Over the years I’ve had good noodles and not-so-good noodles, but I may have had the best noodles so far last Saturday, at the Green Leaf Bistro near City Hall. I ordered the plain beef brisket and OMG was it good; so good that I want to go back and try something (everything) else. Ter’s standard is lemongrass chicken and the Green Leaf delivered there, too. We’ve been forced to expand our territory due to fire, new management, renovations, relocations, you name it, our regular haunts have suffered it. I tend to stick with a place I like, so it’s been good to try other versions of the staple, though it’s a bit like Goldilocks in search of “just right”. One was too spicy, one was too bland, one skimped on the beef, but the Green Leaf checked every box.

What a relief. I’ve been noodle-free for almost a month and I generally can’t go more than two weeks without them. Truly. A tub-sized bowl will fuel me up for a fortnight; after that, I start thinking, hmmm, could go for noodles today. Not so long ago, such a craving could only be sated by Chinese chow mein, so I rarely craved them. Now, on practically every corner,  I can choose between Thai and Vietnamese, where rice noodles rule supreme.

What the pho? Here, have a noodle!

Colourful Metaphors

Basher and Ru ready for a win ... and still waiting

“Hey, Ter, you know how I said I was a little sad that we didn’t go to the game after all?”

“Yes …?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

It’s a statement when the tribute before the game is better than the game itself. Not that it was a bad game; it was just a losing effort. The Flyers got on the board first, the Canucks answered, and then it was over—in seventeen seconds, to be exact, after Alex Burrows broke loose and scored twice in the third period. An empty-netter finished them off, so the final score was 4-1 in Vancouver’s favour. Now we’re 23^rd in the league, eleventh in our conference and fifth in our division. 73 points over 72 games with 10 left in the season.

$#*^%*

After Burrows’ second goal – the knife to my heart – the colour commentator remarked that the Flyers’ playoff hopes were getting slimmer. I snorted and snapped, “What playoff hopes? Did we have playoff hopes?”

Ter patiently replied, “He’s being nice.”

 

Augh. What have we come to, when the opposing broadcast crew shows us mercy?

All right, so I’m a bad loser.

The night was special because the Canucks honoured the late great Pat Quinn, who had also coached the Flyers to their 35 game win streak in 1979/80 (losing game 7 of the Cup final to the heinous misbegotten Islanders), but was mostly responsible, so they say, for making something respectable of the Vancouver franchise. St. Trevor of Linden brought in the very best of the Canucks’ alumni, and my hero was among those from other teams where Quinn left his mark. Bob Clarke was captain of the Flyers when Quinn coached in Philadelphia, and when I heard him announced, I briefly regretted the decision to skip the trip and see the game live. I had to remind myself that he would have been there anyway, just up in the visitors’ royal box, not on the ice and wearing a Flyer jersey.

Ter and I would have been there, but for the mutual decision to spare ourselves the expense of an overnight and two days’ work at a critical time of year. I gave the tickets to a colleague who lives on the mainland, and who took his son as a belated birthday present. They sent me a selfie taken during the first intermission. The birthday boy was beaming in a signed Canucks jersey—clearly a fan of the home team. That made the decision not to go even more worthwhile.

Well, 4 -1 is better than the result of the January matchup, when Vancouver visited the Flyers and won 4-0. Letting the opposition score four unanswered goals was … exactly what happened last night.

 

*&$^%#

Thunder-struck

I’ve not been writing much of late. It’s typical at this time of year, when fiscal-year-end eclipses life outside the office. I’ve been reading instead, seeking inspiration to keep from freaking out that I’ve lost my gift. Honestly, it happens every spring, and every spring I must remind myself that this ain’t my first rodeo. After Easter, I’ll have time that I presently don’t have to create. In the meantime, read, read, read. I’m almost finished with Lestat and have borrowed Station Eleven from a friend after reading kudos for it from GRRM and Erin Morgenstern.

I’ve also scored a copy of She’s Got Soul—a compilation CD from the Starbucks collection that features Nina Simone, Amy Winehouse, Etta James, and a host of other soul sistahs. It’s squaring off against Diana Krall’s Wallflower for air time on my stereo. I’ve played around with opening scenes and story ideas on Tuesday nights, but have been totally disinclined to boot the writing rig on my days off. I did discover that I can stream whole episodes of X Company from cbc.ca, however, and I’ve baked a lot of muffins in that downtime. Ter and I were also supposed to travel to Vancouver for the Flyers/Canucks game on the 17^th, but the energy required to get there, plus the inconvenience of losing two workdays at this critical juncture, convinced us to stay home and watch the game on TV.

It’s the worst time to wrestle with my muse. I am easily frustrated by alluring fragments for new works and reminders of those that have stalled. I realize that I haven’t finished anything since January, when the speed picked up at work, and have recently (irrationally) wondered if I will ever finish anything that isn’t about vampires. This prompted me to consider, for the nth time, unraveling the novel to the first eight chapters and writing it in another direction though the only thing wrong with what I’ve written so far is me.

Ter and I saw Celtic Thunder perform on March 11. The lads came to Victoria on their “Best Of” tour, and with Damian McGinty returned to the fold, I was taken back in time to the early days of my Fixed Fire series. The first few volumes were driven by Def Leppard and Sarah McLachlan, but a good chunk of the next generation was fuelled by the Celtic boys and “Celtic Woman” before them. Hearing the songs that sparked so vibrantly in my imagining a handful of years ago was a welcome jolt to the system last week. At this point, I’m either winding down at work or completely desperate to escape it, because seeing the show brought back all the passion I felt for my Castasian characters and their wild green mountainous magical world. This past weekend, I dragged out the novel again, reconnected with the story, and have committed to finishing the f***er or die trying.

This is volume 7. I’ve got material for one more after this, and part of my motivation to finish Reijo’s story is so I can get to Aurelia’s. Make no mistake; I adore Reijo. He’s my white knight in dented armour and he deserves a happy ending. I’m just not very good at happy endings, so doing right by him has been a struggle. I need him now, though, to prove to myself that vampires are not my sole strength, to get me through year-end and give me a project for a much-needed writing holiday planned for some time in April.

The “Big Pink” Baby

The couple downstairs brought their new baby girl home a few weeks ago. With Ter and me living directly above her, we’ve expected to be “up with the baby” of a night since she got out of the hospital. Despite her parents’ apologies for the screaming, however, we have yet to hear anything more than occasional cooing and, even more infrequently, a little fussing. I reckon once she gets some power behind her lungs, we’ll hear her more often and that’s okay. It’s what babies do, and when she gets rolling, I hope I’ll feel more for the new parents than myself. Children were not in my cards on this go-round, so I’ve been spared the anxiety attached to being responsible for a newborn, an anxiety which our sleep-deprived neighbours have admitted to feeling as they set out on this journey—without a map, may I add.

I do wonder why babies cry, though. I mean, really. What do they have to cry about? I get the wet diaper discomfort and I imagine the warm squishy didie isn’t much fun, either. I understand being First World hungry and the startling sharpness of intestinal gas pains; I also get the too-hot, too-cold dilemma, especially when you don’t control the thermostat and lack the motor skills to manage your own sweater, but other than those trifling irritants, there’s no reason for spontaneous squalling—right?

Well …

Something occurred to me while revisiting The Tale of the Body Thief—the story where Lestat de Lioncourt, after two hundred years, decides he’s done with being a vampire and wants to be mortal again. Enter a man with the ability to force a soul from its flesh and take that body as his own. He convinces Lestat to switch bodies with him and Lestat recklessly agrees to try it for a day. Naturally, the Body Thief absconds with Lestat’s immortal body and the chase begins as the ousted vampire sets out to regain his perfected form. There’s other stuff woven through the tale—love and redemption and salvation and reconciliation etc.—but Lestat’s memories prove to be grossly over-romanticized when he opens his mortal eyes and cannot figure out why the light is so dim. The weight of his mortal flesh is overwhelming, the body is clumsy and sluggish, the senses are muzzy and indistinct, and then, oh joy, he catches a wicked savage cold and ends up in the hospital. In due course, he grows accustomed to his cumbersome state, but as I read his story, it dawned on me that his plight was not unlike what our souls must face when we are born into the human experience.

Imagine coming from a place of weightlessness, where the light is luminous and never truly dark, where we can transport ourselves on the strength of a whim, and landing in a dimension where gravity keeps us grounded, where sight and sound are murky and lack resonance, where we must learn to express ourselves with speech rather than a telepathic flash of imagery. Imagine being part of a great collective consciousness, of sharing thoughts and dreams and visions with ease, of belonging to something bigger and more powerful than oneself, then being disconnected, singled out and alone.

I cannot say for certain that our combined essence actually exists on such a plane, but I’m pretty darned sure it’s vastly different from what we know as carbon-based life forms assigned to this intensely physical phase. Being mortal is damned difficult work; it’s lonely, exhausting, and painful, and I’m fortunate that I don’t remember where I came from, otherwise I might have quit a long time ago. Never mind that I chose this estate, that I clamoured to come here and learn something from the struggle. I asked for this. I wanted to be mortal, to experience Contrast in the best way possible, which was to squeeze myself into this bag of meat and bone and go forth with good intention … and no idea how hard it would be. Yes, there is joy in this state. There is love and pleasure and music and the flavour of chocolate, but these things are gained as you go.

It surely must be worse for babies and small children, so fresh from the shell and yet tied to the go-before. Who wouldn’t be dismayed about unforeseen constriction of the flesh, not to mention the isolation that comes with it? We are all human, yet the physical condition cuts us off from our fellows unless we make the effort to reconnect, not as we connect in our soul state, but through social contact and mutual cooperation. Babies don’t speak our language and we’ve lost our ability to communicate without words. How frustrating and how scary it is to find oneself in a world so foreign when all the brochures promised a great adventure.

Maybe that’s why babies cry. When the “Big Pink” baby ramps up the volume and I happen to be nearby, I might just ask her—or maybe I’ll just cuddle her, and assure her that though she may feel otherwise, she is not alone.