Writer's Corner

Sustainers of the Earth, by Jamal Ali

2014-09-19T11:39:00.002-06:00

Aghadreena, leader of the Queendom of Earthly Bliss and her disciples,

clad in different shades of green, gathered in a meadow

under the canopy of cloudy skies. They held hands in a circular formation.

Together they repeated, “Mother Earth, Mother Earth,

how great you’ve been to us, how thankful we are to thee.

Grant us all your love, so that we can sustain you.”

Imprisoned by Willoughby, the conqueror, Aghadreena and her disciples

wore the clothes of “heretics and sisters of evil.”

The wrath of the conqueror brought forth overwhelming grief:

wars of destruction, financial ruin and hunger. Willoughby’s unfettered power

corrupted the domain of the sacred mother. In the vast ocean of space,

Island Earth felt lonely and helpless. The spirit of yearning for the Queendom

days of peace, happiness and prosperity refused to depart from the realm

of the sacred mother.

A group of men, The Poets of Nirvana, demanded to Willoughby the release of

Aghadreena and her disciples. Willoughby, a lover of poetry, thought deeply

about the group quoting the words of John F. Kennedy, “When power leads

man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.” Haunted by the awesome power

of these words, the conqueror embarked on a journey of soul-searching. Mother Earth was basking in the sunlight of hope.

Remembering Lynn Fraser

2014-03-17T21:39:00.000-06:00

In Loving Memory of Lynn Fraser

I am so saddened by the news of Lynn's passing. I didn't know her well or for long, yet she left a lasting impression on me. I took my first AWCS class with her last fall. She had a gentle, optimistic way about her and always laughed at my silly jokes. I felt she saw something in me worth nurturing and so she was my first mentor since choosing to pursue writing. I will miss her. She will be an inspiration to me for years to come.

--Sue McLarty

~~~~

I met Lynn ten years ago when I served on the board at AWCS. That particular year, we were looking for a treasurer to shepherd us into a new era of electronic accounting. For many of us on the board, the task seemed complex and frustrating. But, with a wide smile and without a moment's hesitation, Lynn agreed to take on the job. She told us not to worry: the project was really quite straightforward and we could count on her to take it in hand. In a matter of weeks, she converted the ledger books with confidence, ease and humility. From that moment, I learned that whenever Lynn was involved, anything seemed possible.

At AWCS, people come and go, but Lynn became part of the landscape. Treasurer, office manager, FreeFall editor, writer. Her deep and steady commitment to the place was remarkable. I always looked forward to catching up with Lynn at literary events and basking in her joyous take on life, even when the hills seemed so very steep. I will remember Lynn Fraser as a generous, capable, loyal person. I will never forget her smile.

--Shaun Hunter

~~~~

Lynn and I took Introductory Short Story together many years ago which is where we met. She was always an honest and forthcoming, encouraging person with everyone around her. She wrote lovely stories and put real thought into her characters.

Her voice will ring through often, especially at those times when we need encouragement for our own writing.

I'd like to convey to her family my personal condolences for their loss. It has truly been an honour to have known her in the time we've had.

--Diana Bliss

~~~~

It must have been mid-2004. I was sitting in a workshop or class—I can’t remember which because I took so darned many in those early years with AWCS—where Lynn was also a student. I remember her being very involved in the class and had a lot to say. She wanted to learn and absorb everything she possibly could.

Lynn was passionate. About everything she did.

Lynn had already been on the board of directors for awhile as acting Treasurer. It was nearing the end of the AWCS fiscal year and the board was looking for new members to fill vacant board positions. Near the end of the class, or workshop, Lynn began to plug the AWCS and what a wonderful organization it was and if they couldn’t fill the vacant positions, the organization would cease to exist. The shear idea of this brought Lynn to tears.

That love and dedication for the AWCS is what got me on the board.

In fact, much of what I do now directly relates back to that moment. Lynn is the reason that I am here and continue to be here. I only hope I can be half the person she was.

Our relationship didn’t remain within the walls of AWCS. Lynn and I became friends. Sharing our writing with each other, drinking and playing pool in her basement, a Thanksgiving dinner shared with her family. I even sat with her husband Neil through a session of his dialysis several years ago. Lynn and Neil were second parents to me, and I could not imagine my life without them being a part of it.

In 2007, as my wedding approached, I went to Lynn and together we created my dress. Not without exhausting other options first though. She trucked me over to her daughter’s house to first try on Sherry’s dress and she was willing to make all the alterations necessary. But it wasn’t what I wanted. It was a beautiful dress, but a little too extravagant for what I envisioned.

We scoured fabric shops for the right material, for the right pattern. Of course Lynn did all the hard work. But our visions meshed. A simple dress for a simple outdoor, country BBQ style wedding.

I am grateful for everything Lynn has done for me and taught me on a professional and personal level. A part of her will forever hang in my closet, never far from my heart.

--Robin van Eck

~~~~

It will be hard for me to think of the Alexandra Writers Centre
without Lynn Fraser. I met her many years ago when she was treasurer
of the AWCS board and I was president. I could always count on Lynn
to do a great job and initiate and carry through projects. Since
those days, her passion for writing and the group led her to
contribute in so many ways. I've enjoyed her humour and down-to-earth
sincerity. The AWCS and I will miss Lynn. My thoughts are with her loved ones.

--Susan Calder

~~~~

I respected Lynn and felt she was talented and a true star in the writing community.

--Jill Allen

In Memory of Lynn Fraser

2014-03-17T21:36:00.001-06:00

Lynn Fraser (1953-2014)

It’s with great sadness that AWCS announces the passing of AWCS member and instructor Lynn Fraser on March 15, 2014.

Lynn was a strong, passionate voice on the AWCS board of directors for many years. She then became our office administrator and brought that same passion to everything she did. As an instructor, Lynn’s love of words shone through and she inspired many.

In 2006, along with Micheline Maylor, Lynn helped grow and develop FreeFall Magazine by creating the FreeFall Literary Society of Calgary. Since then she has worked tirelessly as the Managing Editor of the great magazine.

We are all better people for having known this great woman. May her stories and passion continue to inspire for years to come.

She will be missed but never forgotten.

We would like to invite anyone who has a memory of Lynn to please send it to info@alexandrawriters.org so that we may create a tribute to her on our blog.

A memorial service will be held on Saturday, March 22, 2014 at 6pm at Genesis Centre of Community Wellness, 7555 Falconridge Blvd. NE, Calgary. Everyone is welcome.

In Memorium - Leslie Carmichael

2014-01-29T14:41:00.000-07:00

The Aisles of Blest

By Leslie Carmichael

(Originally published by SF Online, Winter 2007)

She paused, drinking in the sights and sounds of the battleground. She was ready but for one thing: a mount.

A line of steeds awaited her choice, light winking seductively off their burnished bodies. She reached eagerly for the silver harness of the first, then chanced to glance down at its wheels. She drew in a breath. Misaligned.

Dismayed, she looked more closely at the rest. Most were subtly or overtly flawed. Dirty, dented, disfigured. Tawdry beasts, all.

She was about to capitulate and choose one of the marred creatures, when she spotted a solitary, perfect mustang in the dimness of an alcove. The beast’s very stillness drew her. She stalked it carefully, then grasped its metal bar. A gasp shook her. This was the one! It quivered under her touch.

She glanced at the battleground and bared her teeth, anticipating the ideal moment. Finally, it came.

Blood singing, she sailed into the fray. Together, woman and beast plunged into the maelstrom, moving almost as a single being, they alone harmonizing in the midst of so many discordant partnerships.

With a manic grin, she faced down her opponents, her marvelous steed echoing her movements as if it were an extension of her own body. The most delicate touch sent it gliding through the crush, into spaces seemingly impossibly small.

They flew past “Jams and Jellies”, through “Canned Goods” and “Plasticware”, the steel creature moving with joyous speed under her guiding hands. Aisle after aisle surrendered to her marauder’s instinct. She plucked prey from hiding places too high or deep for other mortals.

Then they turned a corner to confront . . . disaster.

A rival.

She narrowed her eyes. The steed trembled under her hand, poised in pregnant silence. She feinted; then stooped, hawk-like, and snatched the cowering, solitary article from its dark cave, out from under her opponent’s very grasp. Triumphant, she smiled graciously at the other woman, who was left to face the harsh reality of the hated “rain-check”.

She could feel her beast's approval--as it was worthy of her, so she had proved she was worthy of it. Impatient, it urged her forward, eager for more battles.

They were curbed only twice after that. An avalanche in “Produce” impeded them but briefly, and her steed skittered away nervously from a much larger beast in the narrow confines of the Deli. She soothed it with a firm hand and quiet words.

All too soon, it seemed, they approached the final test--freedom's passage--the check-out. The battle was almost over. She was exhilarated. Yet a trickle of sadness arose in her chest.

They, woman and beast together, had accomplished their mission like a true-mated team. Now she would have to leave her faithful steed behind.

She only hoped she would be able to find her soul’s partner again when, as she knew she must, she returned. In its absence, the Hunt would surely be a lesser thing.

She frowned. Others might not be so appreciative of her steed’s sublime form. Would it still be in the same gleaming shape, when she next they met? Or would it have suffered the fate of so many others? Dented? Wheels off true? Or--most horridly-- broken? Its impetuous nature fettered by domesticity?

She pictured it instead in magnificent splendor in the wild.

“Look ” passersby would cry. “There it is!” And they would watch in awe, as it stood proudly among the hills, tall grass grazing its belly, the sun gilding its gleaming sides.

But that would be a lonely existence. Anything might happen. 'Twas better thus, truly. At least here it could be tended, cosseted.

She gave it a surreptitious pat, then reluctantly sent it back to its stable, where it nestled tiredly with the other beasts. Its thoroughbred beauty looked out of place with the rest of the spavined herd.

She realized, then, as her distracted gaze took in the rest of the beasts, that what she had taken for flaws in each of them were not defects.

They were battle scars. Honorable and worthy of respect.

Her beast would, she acknowledged, eventually come to bear them as well. She silently apologized to its stablemates, vowing to never again scorn the honest veterans. Chastened, she bowed her head, saluting them.

Giving her exhausted steed one last, tear-laden glance, she exited the store, her newly-won plunder dragging at her arms.

Farewell, my friend and faithful steed, she thought as she drove out of the parking lot into the setting sun.

Oh, fare thee well.

~~~~~~~

Leslie Carmichael has been inside the Great Pyramid of Giza, has watched the world turn purple during a solar eclipse, and has been an honoured guest at a Canadian-Scottish-Taiwanese wedding. She has swum in the Red Sea, picked amethysts off the ground in Thunder Bay, watched a space shuttle land and cooked a medieval dinner for 200 people. She has worn a corset, a suit of armour and a Klingon outfit (but not all at the same time!). Leslie liked to work on miniature dolls and dollhouses when she was not writing. She could crochet three-dimensional objects without a pattern, but found knitting way too complicated. She also sang soprano in a choir and loved music.

Leslie lived in Calgary with her husband, three children and two demanding cats.

Leslie was a member of numerous writing groups and organizations, including the Alexandra Writers Centre Society.

Leslie passed away January 9, 2014 after her year and half battle with colon cancer.

She will be missed but never forgotten.

Story Is a State of Mind w/ Sarah Selecky

2014-01-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

AWCS is pleased to welcome, Giller Prize Finalist, Sarah Selecky for this special one-day only workshop for writers.

Story Is a State of Mind

April 26, 2014

10am to 4pm (lunch provided)

Inglewood Community Centre, 1740, 24th St SE, Calgary

AWCS Members: $130 | Non-Members: $160

Register Online

Story Is a State of Mind teaches contemplative writing in a way that is practical, radical and transformative, and allows writers to develop the capacity for deep concentration. To write in this way means to quiet the mind in the midst of the distraction that fills everyday life. In this one-day workshop, participants will learn how to find this state of calm centeredness, and experience how it is an aid to exploration of story. The writing done in this workshop will be practical and generative, and it will help writers develop a compassionate approach to their writing practice. Writers should come prepared to experience moments of insight and a renewed commitment to their relationship to writing.

About Sarah Selecky

Sarah Selecky is a dual citizen of Canada and the United States and grew up in Southern Indiana and Northern Ontario. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia, and her writing has appeared in the top Canadian magazines and quarterlies such as The Walrus, The New Quarterly, and The Journey Prize Anthology, among many others. This Cake Is for the Party is her first book, which was a finalist for the Scotiabank Giller Prize, shortlisted for the Commonwealth Prize for Best First Book, and longlisted for the Frank O’Connor Short Story Award. She is also the creator of the groundbreaking online writing program, Story Is a State of Mind. She divides her time between Toronto and the rest of the world. You can find Sarah at www.sarahselecky.com and on Twitter @sarahselecky.

2013-11-12T10:12:00.001-07:00

Reflections of a Summer in Bingen

The retired schoolteacher struggled with his journal entry about his missing Ella.

Old age, loneliness, despair, anger gnawed at him. He crumpled the page he had

been writing on and tossed his pen down the stairway in frustration. July 2009 – the

midst of a blackout in Shreveport. The flickering light of emergency candles on the

large wooden table did not soften the octogenarian’s grief over the sudden loss of his

dearly departed wife of 50 years. Dwight shouted, “I need you Ella. I need you.

Come and join me honey. I cannot live without you.” The flashlight that he

retrieved from the mahogany cupboard illuminated memories of the summer of

1975: Bingen on the river Rhine, the blonde-haired Fraulein Helga. He smiled as he

recalled that first meeting with the beautiful blue-eyed Rhineland maiden. His

reminiscences about the secret affair with Helga soothed his misery and loneliness,

while guilt deluged him at the thoughts of leaving Ella behind in Baton Rogue. He

wept in a stuttering voice, “El-, El-, Ella, how, how, how could I’ve, I’ve done, done

this to you. For-, for-, forgive me, me, for cheating on you.” Afterwards, Dwight

wondered, what became of Helga?

Jamal Ali

Turkey Stories

2013-10-28T18:53:00.000-06:00

The Backbone

by Travis Oltmann

Her robe is cinched tight and she is bleary eyed in the morning. Coffee, dark, hot, intermittent sips. Turkey out of the sink. Cellophane wrapping cut with a knife. She takes the bird and puts it in the roasting pan. It is slippery and awkward and the task is not made easier by her arthritic hands.

The turkey gets moved out of the way and she fetches cookware from the cupboard and heats it on the stove. Bacon in the pan. While it’s sizzling she takes day old bread and chops it into workable cubes. Olive oil, sprinkle with parsley, bake, four hundred degrees. The bacon wakes her husband and he comes down to inspect in blue jeans and a striped maroon shirt he’s had since there was color in his hair.

They kiss and smile. Another day of year forty-one.

Her husband goes outside to see if there’s anything to fix or anything he can improve. There’s not, but he’ll find something. He’s the type of man renovators will curse centuries later.

Bread is done. She pulls it from the oven. Chopped celery and onions in with the bacon. Her coffee is cold and she heats it in the microwave because she doesn’t have time to make a fresh pot. The turkey needs to go in. Guests are coming.

Her son comes down and eats a piece of bacon. Her other son comes down and eats a piece of bacon. Over the years she’s learned to fry a bit more than she needs.

Bread in with the bacon as well as thyme, sage, and chicken stock. When it’s mixed properly she puts it in a bowl to cool and massages the turkey with butter. Upstairs to change.

Upon returning her son asks if she needs a hand and she says she would love it if he could help stuff the turkey. She shows him how to clump the breading together and force it inside. He doesn’t like the feeling of the breading or the turkey’s nether regions so he sits on the couch and watches football with his brother.

The turkey is in, she checks her watch and she’s right on schedule. Her coffee sits on the rotating table in the microwave and it has gotten cold again. She re-heats the cup and puts a pot on the stove to parboil a sack of potatoes. It simmers while she peels the skins with a paring knife. There’s a gadget in the drawer that would speed up the process but it hurts in her grip. Foreign, too. Not how she learned from her mother.

Her husband comes in and asks the boys for hand lifting a sixty pound light fixture. The brothers complain and grumble as they’re taken away from football for twenty minutes.

Dishes clutter the countertop now and she washes and dries them in the sink so she has space to work. The afternoon games are on and the announcers call plays from the living room where her sons drift in and out of consciousness.

Extended family shows up, friends too. Her husband adds another section to the table and she’s working furiously in the kitchen to have everything ready. Butter and cream in the potatoes, mash. Salt and pepper. Turkey out, one last baste. Cranberry sauce on the stove, remove from the heat so it doesn’t melt the skin from anyone’s mouth.

Although thanksgiving is relatively new in her lineage the basic recipes and preparations have traveled through many hands and many years to sit on an Albertan table. She was taught on the frigid, windswept plains of small town Saskatchewan. Her mother the same. Tracing it back further will lead to a long boat ride and optimistic peasants.

Finally, after nine hours, bowls and platters and carafes cover more visible space than the red table cloth. Laughter and cutlery scraping plates fills the room.

Everyone remarks how wonderful the food is. Afterwards with glasses of wine in beer in hand they retreat to the living room and catch up on each other’s lives.

She listens to the stories of the people she’s known for her entire life or their entire life. Familiar and family bear such a close resemblance. She smiles to herself.

Late at night her tipsy husband silently arranges the ingredients to a sandwich. It is dark and he decides to leave the lights off. What a racket her coffee cup makes when he pushes a plate of turkey into the microwave.

Ask Your Mom, by Lori Hanhel now up at the Danforth Review

2013-10-02T16:37:00.002-06:00

Check out this poignant, funny and honest short story at the link below*

http://thedanforthreview.blogspot.ca/2013/09/fiction-46-lori-hahnel.html

Congrats, Lori!

*Warning for some strong language

Call For Submissions: Turkeys and More

2013-09-30T13:26:00.000-06:00

It's Autumn. The leaves are falling, the air is crisp, the pumpkins are getting ready to take Cinderella to the ball, and many of us are looking forward to that Thanksgiving gutsplosion known as the turkey dinner.

Send us your turkey stories, or Thanksgiving stories, or any kind of writing that can be loosely attenuated to the turkey/Thanksgiving theme.

Email your submission to awcswriterscorner@gmail.com and the AWCS blog turkey will happily share it with our readers.

Retreat, by Jamal Ali

2013-09-11T14:17:00.000-06:00

This wilderness of tranquility

at Goldeye Lake,

is so soothing,

my mind is at ease.

Evergreens tickle the sky.

The placid lake reflects my mood of complete calm.

Life takes a slow pace here.

This aura of prevailing silence,

is so scintillating

that it revels my psyche.

Healing surroundings,

the fresh air rejuvenates.

I rejoice in the freedom of space and nature.

The innocent chatter of the squirrels,

so full of life,

scampers from place to place

in my midst.

In the early dawn,

an owl summons its mate,

a cry of longing echoing against the foothills.

The log cabins,

are full of splendid coziness

in the dark nights.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-07-05T14:51:00.001-06:00

WHAT WAS NOW

By Phyllis Heltay

Hickory, dickory, dock, the mouse ran up the clock…then the damnable rodent continued to try to skitter a way into my works, chased up my tower by Desdemona’s cat. The turn of the last century makers were not metal fools and so built me impervious to the elements and any creatures that might consider this a safe perching nest. My iron face has retained its original subtle patina, despite what it routinely has to witness that is less than dignified, I must say.

Horrors! The aforementioned Desdemona is ignoring her marauding tabby just as she ignores the sign at the entrance to this public rose garden – NO PETS PLEASE. There you have it. The “please” at the end makes it seem like a kindly suggestion rather than a rule. While she sits on that bench, for exactly forty five minutes each and every Tuesday through Thursday, her freedom crazed animal will pounce on mice, beetles, and wind-blown leaves. Then, when its metabolism is charged to the maximum, it will use the base of the Queen Elizabeth Pink as a litter box. Shameful. Desdemona will ignore the desecration, only looking up once at my face to check that she hasn’t become so lost in her fiction that she’s out-stayed her welcome. If only my minute and hour hands could form a scowl to show my annoyance. However, I was built for the inevitable, not judgement. One minute follows the next, regardless of the endless prayers to the contrary etched on the hopeful upturned faces I see on a regular basis. They come to the garden to slow down time, and even stop it.

A few days ago a young man entered the park on a wave of anxiety, his telephone contraption glued to his ear. I’m surprised that anyone can look at me and remember how to read the hour since the style is to have the numbers flashed without a hint of irony or grace. I’ve seen expectant lovers hold their breath between the ticks of my filigree minute hand, parsing out the seconds until their flushed partners arrive, not a moment too soon.

The young man circled me twice, muttering obscenities and then, I am almost sure, I heard the sound of a gut retching pain that emanated from his core as he threw his device to the ground. He pressed his forehead to my cool metal and stood silent and still. When he felt the vibration of the hour being struck he raised his head, and I saw it in his eyes, that prayer – a sad expression of overwhelming regret and loss, and an intense need for my hands to move counter clock wise, giving him the moment back when irreparably choices changed the course of his life. I can only look down and offer another second, minute, and hour to set things right. Can he feel the vast forgiving ocean of time in those infinitesimal spaces between then, and now?

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-07-03T12:19:00.002-06:00

What Took You So Long?

By Heidi Grogan

Cursed knots! I quickly re-thread and stitch the nylon pocket into the lining of my Speedo bathing suit. Shove the “made-for-water” fake boob into the pocket, check that it’s secure. I don’t want to see my rubber breast floating on the surface of the pool, kids using it for a game of pig in the middle. Two years since the mastectomy, and I’m still not ready. What if people see it when I bend over? I won’t bend over.

At the pool, Eli and his son Simon are waiting. “What took you so long?” Simon asks.

We hit the water slide and Eli scoots down first with Simon safe between his legs. I sit at the top and feel the water gushing, piling up around my back, moving around my hips and sneaking under my thighs. I push off, lay back and pick up speed down the dark tubes that drop off with no warning. Run the banked curves like a luger, water sloshing over the sides as I slide high left, then high right around the corners. Feel the seams of the plastic slide catch hold of my bathing suit running them over, faster and faster, click, click, click…. At the bottom I plug my nose and propel into deep water, sink low and kick up to the side where Eli and Simon laugh, ready to go again.

After each run I cup the false breast when I think no one is looking. At the end of the day it’s twisted sideways in its pocket, but my sewing job held up.

In the change room I use the key tied onto my right shoulder strap to get into my locker—I want my shampoo. The plan is to use another quarter to lock it again and free the key. Only, I don’t have a quarter. Damn. I’m stuck! I have to get the key off the strap. Only, I can’t. I have to get out of the bathing suit. I pull the left strap off my shoulder and wiggle my elbow through. Oh no! My flat mastectomy no-nipple skin is exposed! The nylon pocket flops against my ribcage. For everyone to see. And they are seeing. My face flames. I stand higher on my tiptoes, pretend to search for something on the top shelf. My calves cramp, I need to stand down. When I do, my bathing suit pulls up my crotch like a hammock yanked up between two trees, trying to toss its occupant. Fuck! I’m high centred! Back to tip toes. Two girls make horrified faces at each other and exchange a silent “OMG.” I snarl out “thanks” but the tears flow. A mother with a toddler in her arms comes over.

“Can I help?”

“Need a quarter.” It’s all I can choke out. She opens her purse. This will be done soon, this will be over soon. It is. She unlocks me.

I mutter gratitude and make for the bathroom, close the door. And I bawl.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-06-30T13:22:00.002-06:00

The Tree

By Margaret Graw

Skye, it’s what the mother called the child who ran toward the ruby blossom that swayed in the breeze; the plump leaves folded back perfectly to reveal the ginger flower. The woman’s white blonde hair matched the girls; their smiles mirror reflections. A giggle, a finger pointing, a skip and a hop, and the little girl reached out, touched a petal.

I’d stood on that land, in that field, for many seasons, since I was small like the blue field flowers that now tickle my feet. I was alone at first, and grew openly, spread my branches up and out after each rainfall. It was a free place. The low flowers and grasses spread away from my roots, reaching toward the far edges. As I grew taller I could see they reached out past the curve of land. My leaves grew larger, too. Deep green, flat and shiny, as big as a man’s hand. Yes I see the men who come to plant and pick in the far field. No trees grow there. Only plants that grow in straight rows, plucked out if they stray.

I noticed a new plant one day, growing at my feet. She had my attention from the first shoot. Her leaves were narrow, plump, and reached high. Twice a year she produced the most amazing blossom, bright red and dangerous. She draws in yellow finches, hummingbirds, birds whose names I don’t know. I don’t blame the birds for leaving my branches to visit her. I sweep my branches low to protect her when the monsoon comes. I will my leaves to scatter around her and protect her fragile roots. My roots on the sunset side, those closest to her, draw more water - feed her and encourage her. We alone in that field stand high. I am hers. She is mine.

The days are easy and warm, but the nights are dark and lonely. When the wind blows, my branches hum her to sleep. On quiet nights I point out the stars to her and the face of the moon. In the distance the ocean shushes against the shore bringing news of other lands, other trees, other flowers. I think she hears this too.

The woman had worked in the field that morning; the girl had played under a sunshade. Until that morning I’d only seen men in the field. The woman walked slowly, her hands on her hips. She let the straw sunhat slip back and hang against her back. The girl ran toward us, so small, so quick, like a cat.

The sun was straight overhead and the flower in a gentle tilt from the heat. The child touched a single petal with one small finger and turned back to her mother. Then so quickly two small hands wound around the neck of the blossom, snapped it, and pulled. Skye swung the blossom in the air and ran a circle around me. I stood still, but I saw the blood.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalists

2013-06-26T14:36:00.000-06:00

*Apologies for the delay in posting the final stories. Internet has been spotty and lives have been upended in the wake of recent events. Our hearts go out to all those affected by the southern Alberta floods. Please enjoy a moment of distraction with the following short-short story.

Ramblings of an Under-appreciated PC

By Madelaine Wong

Chuck and I have been together five years; love at first sight. His eyes glistened when he saw me at Best Buy and he brought me home that day.

“She’s fast and look at her amazing resolution,” Chuck said.

He took me on a fabulous holiday to Vancouver and even let me sit on his lap on the plane. I store the photos files, so Chuck can pull up the pics from time to time and we relive lovely memories.

Mostly, we work. Chuck isn’t the easiest person to get along with, pounding on me all day, demanding answers to queries – “What’s the capital of Gambia? How to cook banana slugs? What do geckos eat?” I assist him with research and editing his stories, while he clutters my memory with hundreds of documents. I help him keep in touch with loved ones, but he won’t even take the time to defrag or upgrade me. Hell, he won’t even dust my keys. At the end of the day, just when I’m ready to hibernate, he wants me to search for pictures of naked women. I don’t judge. I do what I’m told.

Now, he asks me to pull up multiple documents, while at the same time, he’s surfing the net. Hang on, Chuck. This could take a while…

“Piece of shit computer!” He bangs my keys and gives me a shove.

Not my fault I’m slower than I used to be. I picked up a virus last week, after he pirated “Satisfaction” to my music files.

“Writers don’t get paid enough for their work,” he whines. Serves him right I got sick, the cheapskate hypocrite. Now he’ll have to pay someone to fix me. He should have used protection. He’s careless though, hasn’t even backed up my files.

I can almost feel the virus creeping its way through my system, corrupting my drives. I’m running hot. Maybe my fan is malfunctioning. I hope Chuck will take me in to see the geeks at Best Buy. They might have to operate, though. What if it’s terminal? My friend went in for a check-up, just a little tune-up, she was told. They opened her up and found her motherboard fried. Repairs were too costly so they euthanized her, right there on the spot. My Chuck would never be so heartless. I’m under-appreciated, but I know he loves me.

Chuck’s typing “Future Shop” into my search engine. No! The cheating bastard is using me to check out other laptops, all shiny, young and slim.

“This one’s a beauty. Next payday, she’s mine,” says Chuck.

I gave Chuck the best years of my life and this is how he treats me.

“One more week, then it’s time to recycle.” He pats me gently.

He thinks he can treat me like a piece of garbage! He won’t get away with it. I’ll kill myself first. Tomorrow at start up, I’ll do irreparable damage to his documents and then black out. Recycle my ass.

Shot-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-06-24T09:40:00.000-06:00

On the Other Side

By Travis Oltmann

The doctors called it impossible, the Christians called it a miracle and a reminder of god’s glory. I didn’t believe either of them. The doctors because, well, it happened, and the Christians because I didn’t think god would have used his powers on an insignificant loner doing temp work in the Odgen Yards.

Men and women in lab coats came to my hospital room and attached a bunch of wires to my neck, my spine, and the severed nerves that hung like cooked spaghetti from the bottom of my head. They told me that my motor neurons were somehow reacting to my brainwaves without being physically connected. Kind of like Wi-Fi. Trouble was, they couldn’t figure out what was acting as the router. Before they left, they advised against any attempt to reattach my head to my body, saying: “we believe the patient is delicately balanced at the moment, and any operation could potentially end his life.”

On the way home from the hospital I had to hold my head in front of my pelvis with both hands. I attempted to flag a cab down but the drivers thought it was some elaborate prank and kept going. Reaction was mixed as I passed people on the sidewalk, some were convinced it was a magic trick and others recoiled in horror. A young girl, face plastered with hardened chocolate ice cream, shrieked and ran into her father’s arms at the sight of me. I tried to smile, to maybe ease her fear a little. Her father called me an asshole.

The first couple of nights were difficult. It’s hard to watch yourself go to sleep from the nightstand. Eventually I placed my head beside my fish tank in the living room and let my frame find its way through the hallways. At times it would take so long to locate the door I would fall asleep to the abrupt sounds of a full grown body walking into drywall.

In the beginning, the few friends I had visited frequently, bringing foods like pies and casseroles. I’d put them in a blender and try to force them down my neckhole, another obstacle. Word spread amongst them that soup was a better idea, preferably some type of consommé that could be funneled through a straw. So they brought chicken and beef water. The visits became shorter, then they stopped all together. The only contact I had with them was through facebook and text messages.

I mostly sat around after that and watched television. If I was tired or lazy I would force my body go for a run. One time it came back with spit and bruises on it.

I became depressed, clinically depressed. The accident had left me a spectator in my own life.

So I locked myself in a storage cabinet. The darkness was better.

At night I can still hear my body clunking around.

Things would have been so different if I didn’t lay my head on that track.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-06-18T09:47:00.000-06:00

July

By Rhonda Parkinson

She went to the baker’s. To buy him some bread…the classic Mother Goose rhyme runs through Linda’s head as she walks to the C-Train station. It’s too beautiful a morning to waste pondering serious matters. Actually, it’s exactly the sort of July morning that promises a sweaty ride home in a cramped C-Train car, the air thickened with heat. But for now the day is perfect.

She turns onto a sidewalk that cuts between two strip malls. Linda walks faster, enjoying the sound of her stilettos clicking the concrete. Strange, how it gives her a sense of being in control.

As she passes a white wooden garbage bin enclosure, there’s a flash in her peripheral vision. Linda jerks her head left. Her breath stops in her throat. He’s thin and sickly, with red scabs pocking his face and pallid lips. His Blues Brothers T-shirt is ridden with holes.

“Can you spare any money?” Yellowed fingers tug nervously at the waistband of grimy sweatpants. “Just enough for a coffee…maybe a pack of smokes?”

Linda feels her stomach tighten as she sees the purplish-blue lines snaking down both forearms. She knows what her husband would say: “Don’t. You’re just paying for the next fix.”

She looks over his shoulder at the buildings behind them, considers offering to buy him breakfast at Tim Hortons.

He reads her gaze correctly. The sticky sweet smell of men’s cologne envelops her as he leans closer. AXE Body Spray – she remembers its strong lime scent. The sour, rotting cabbage smell underneath is new though.

“I could really use the smokes,” he says in a tight voice.

Surrendering, she reaches into her purse and removes two twenties. Her throat clutches as she sees the way he can’t stop himself from grasping at the bills.

“Thanks so much.” He already sounds calmer. Counting the minutes until he can escape from her, Linda thinks. Shoot up.

She stares at him. “You know you can come home.”

“Nah, that ain’t gonna happen.” He throws a quick glance at another man huddled against the enclosure’s wooden wall, his face half-hidden underneath a hoodie. He turns back to her. A feral flash comes into his eyes. “I could use some money for clothes, though.”

“Dad would be happy to go shopping with you.”

But he’s already turning away: “Maybe. Sometime.”

Linda watches the two men leave, her son muscling ahead, rubber sandals crushing the pavement. He has somewhere to go, now. Reaching the road, he looks back as if a thought just occurred to him.

“See ya.”

Linda forces a tight smile. He’d been waiting for her, she realizes. He knew she would choose to walk to the train station on such a perfect day, knew that caught off guard and without his father’s tough love reinforcement, she’d never be able to say no.

Further ahead, the harsh clang of the train station’s crossing guard bells is like taunting laughter.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-06-17T07:17:00.004-06:00

Incident at Crooked House
By Hermine Robinson

Hickory, dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock. Mortimer nestled amongst the gears, safe inside the glass fronted case, and tucked his tail in close, careful to keep it away from sprockets and springs. One pinch was enough for this grey mouse. He absently rubbed the nasty kink, keeping time with the clock's tick, tock. It still hurt in damp weather but he could hardly complain, at least Mortimer still had his tail, unlike the poor blind buggers. The clock struck one.

“Lordy, lordy,” chimed three voices from below. “That farmer's wife was so ugly she struck us blind and then maimed us out of spite.”

“Up here,” Mortimer hissed. “Climb the chain. And mind the gears so you don't pinch –. Never mind, just be careful.”

Three white mice with clouded eyes sat across from Mortimer. Two of them faced him, ears forward. The middle one, sat backwards, waving in the general direction of his stump as he addressed the rear of the clock.

“So let's see if we've got this right,” said Eenie, “you can send us back in time, before this unfortunate incident.”

“Yes, this grandfather clock is a time machine,” said Mortimer. “And by the way, I'm behind you.”

Hup! Eenie spun around. Hup, hup, Meenie and Miney spun around too. Mortimer sighed.

“Technically, all clocks are time machines,” said Eenie.

“This one does more than count forward in one second intervals,” said Mortimer. “My clock can send you back in time, to your original state. From there you can choose a new path.”

“A new path?” asked Meenie. Or was it Miney?

“Yes. One with a different outcome. Or not. It's up to you.”

“Who would follow the same rotten path?” asked Eenie.

“You'd be surprised. Jack is forever breaking his crown. Jill isn't much better.”

“Well that ain't us,” said Meenie. “We'll move far away from that knife wielding crazy.”

Mortimer ran a paw over his whiskers and addressed the delicate subject of payment.

“Usury!” declared all three.

“Triple for three of you,” answered Mortimer. “And cheaper than living with the consequences. Ask Humpty. The money he could have saved on King's horses and men.”

“Are you threatening us?”

“Not at all. My friend and I are merely laying out your options.”

“Friend?”

A soft voice purred, “do you need some help boss?”

“Cat! Cat! Cat!”

The blind mice crashed into each other. One squeaked in fright as a thin, bent tabby with crooked claws flicked him towards the mouse hole. Mortimer watched all three disappear in a flurry of whiskers and haste.

“They'll be back,” he said to Puss.

“With plenty of cheese,” Puss agreed. “And speaking of coming back. Jack is waiting.”

“Another water fetching incident?”

“No, Jill demanded indoor plumbing,” said Puss. “This is something with a candlestick. He'd like to keep it hush hush.”

“That boy is a menace. Charge him double.”

“Funny,” said Puss. “Everyone thinks the Old Man is the crooked one.”

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-06-14T16:08:00.000-06:00

Falling Down
By Dawn Vandeschoot

London Bridge is falling down Falling down, falling down London Bridge is falling down My fair lady.

Green grass and brown shale and bits of sunlight mixed up together with blood and skin carved out of my right knee. Below that is a stick. No, a bone. My bone. My leg bone. It looks like it should hurt. Screaming around me I think is because of the blood, but I lay and listen and it’s not for me. They are still playing. They are far away.

London Bridge is broken down Broken down, broken down
Time must go too fast because the sunlight is disappeared and I am still on the ground. I can smell hamburgers on a bar-b-que from across the street. My tummy grumbles with hunger even though I can’t see very well. My eyes have floating sparkles and it’s a long time between blinks. The other kids are gone now. It’s nicer when they aren’t here.
Wood and clay will wash away
Whirring of wheels on concrete passing by. They sound sloppy in the rain. It makes me thirsty. Hello? I can’t say it out loud. A stream of red flows through the shale disappearing into the dark under the orange baseball bleachers.
Bricks and mortar will not stay
My eyes won’t stay closed once it turns dark, I always see the monsters. And the mosquitoes are bad now. The one on my cheek just keeps sucking on me.
Will not stay, will not stay
Mom said to be back before sundown. She must be mad.
My fair lady
The sun is too hot on my head and I like to hide in the bleachers and play with the rocks and the cigarette butts and tell stories in my head.
Build it up
Whenever the red haired one sees me playing, she comes and kicks over my castles and bonfires and laughs and calls me mean names. I’m used to them. I just wish she’d leave my stories alone.
will be stolen away, Stolen away, stolen away

I brought my favourite toy cow when Mom sent me away. She needs to sleep. I need to get out of her way. Just go play. In my spot I build a castle with a bridge and a king cow. He is a kind king, and handsome.
stolen away
Red hair holds the cow up high. I try to grab it. Come and get it fatty she laughs from the top of the bleachers and I run up and she throws it over the edge and I try to catch it. I hear her snort while I am falling. Stupid retard, she says.
Set a man to watch all night
I am crying now. It is salty and makes me more thirsty. No more sounds. Just the buzz of bugs in my ear. Even the faraway sirens have stopped.
Fall asleep, fall asleep
Mommy has a pretty singing voice.
My fair lady.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-06-13T16:23:00.002-06:00

Chrysalis

By Laurie McCulloch

"Monday's child is fair of face," my sister sings. "Tuesday's child is full of grace."

Too sweet. Like the lemonade I've just poured from the sweating pitcher on the picnic table.

There's a baby somewhere in that cocooned bundle she's holding. I know because I spent the better part of last week coaching her through his birth.

"Wednesday's child is full of - oh!"

"Oh?"

"Woe."

"Oh."

"Never mind," my sister says. "I'll keep you safe, Pumpkin. Yes, I will."

The heat of the day clings to me, thick and airless.

To keep from screaming, my sister poured all her energy into crushing the knuckles of my right hand. I was the only who broke the eerie silence in the delivery room until my nephew soldiered his way into the world and screeched victory from his raw lungs. And then?

He became a swaddled prisoner of war.

I believe he has ten fingers and ten toes. I haven't seen him since he was wrapped up in his straitjacket.

"He's going to be so handsome," my sister says. "Straight A student. Right, sweetheart? All the pretty girls swooning at your feet?"

"Swooning?"

Her smile is lazy and slow. "I've got it all planned," she says.

And the ants that have been marching over the peony heads begin to crawl across my skin. The sharp corners of the boxwood hedge close in. The rose stems look suspiciously like barbed wire.

At twelve, he'll be armored with knee- and elbow-pads, a helmet, 40 spf sunscreen, long sleeves and turtlenecks. He'll be tethered to his mother by a sticky strand of spider silk, unable to escape.

But what I thought was a lump of surrender in my sister's arms has become a vibrating secret since she reluctantly placed him in mine. There's a flutter inside this prison of blankets, a movement he's making with his hands. He's wiggling them to create a pocket of space. Soon they'll curl into fists and punch away the layers.

When she's not looking I'll unravel a thread. Just to give him a head start.

Thursday's child has far to go.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

2013-06-12T10:20:00.003-06:00

A Selvage Edge

By Mary MacAskill

Before the nurse peels away the tape and gauze, the doctor lays a hand on the girl’s arm. “It looks different,” he says, “but soon you’ll be good as new.” Yesterday, the doctor stripped her down and slit her open; his hands were wrist-deep in her abdomen. The incision is raw-edged and angry, a great puckered mouth, pinned in place with silver staples. The girl nods and blinks at the ceiling; she waits for the doctor to leave. He shifts his clipboard, inspects his handiwork.

She is thirteen, flat-chested and bony-hipped, vain enough to be concerned with what survival looks like.

At home, her family is soft-voiced, gentle. Even her big-boned grandmother whose tender edges have been snipped away long ago. She teaches the girl to sew. “Something,” she tells the girl’s mother, “to keep her hands busy.”

On a winter afternoon, the girl chooses a sundress pattern and fabric with little yellow sunflowers. Her grandmother clips the tissuey pattern with heavy, black-handled scissors. She looks at the girl over her bifocals and says, “Measure twice, cut once.”

Alone in her room, the girl measures the scar with her father’s retractable tape measure. Thinks: Cut once, measure again and again and again.

Her grandmother smoothes the fabric, tells a story around a mouthful of pins. Her stories are bare-boned, straightforward as she is, and they all start the same way: “I’ll always remember….”

She shows the girl her hand, the skin between thumb and forefinger perforated with a line of hard white knots. She points to the last one, larger than the rest, and says, “That’s where the needle broke off.” Her hands are big, the knuckles swollen. It’s hard to imagine those hands ever belonging to a young girl. Especially one careless enough to machine stitch through her skin.

“What did you do?” asks the girl.

“What I had to do.” Her grandmother seems amused. “I pulled it out. With a pair of pliers.” The girl thinks of the needlenose pliers the doctor used to remove her staples. That night, she had lain awake, flat on her back, afraid to move. When she finally slept, she dreamed the incision’s edges would separate and she would unravel, her intestines spooling out like a roll of thread.

When the dress is finished, the stitches are tight and even, the hem straight, but it is too small: the buttons down the front snag on her scar, and she cannot breath. The girl wears the dress once, then hides it at the back of her closet. Tries to forget it.

That spring, the girl goes back to school. Her parents stop asking how she’s feeling, and she stops making up different ways to say fine.

Her grandmother does not believe the word fine, and she has not forgotten the dress. When she asks, the girl shrugs, looks away, feigns indifference. But her grandmother knows. She clutches the girl’s hands, squeezes, and the girl practices another way she has learned to hold things together.

AWCS Short-Short Story Contest Finalists!

2013-06-11T10:07:00.001-06:00

First off, a big thanks to everyone who submitted. It wasn't easy narrowing down to a top ten but through the miracle of science and math, we managed.

Now the results are in and we'll post the top ten stories - in no particular order - on the blog at the rate of approximately one a day. We hope you enjoy them as much as we did.

Stay tuned, and flash on.

Writer’s Block? I’ve got “Writer’s Doubt”

2013-05-22T06:45:00.001-06:00

By Kathy Dueck

Despite having written for years, it’s been tough for me to believe in my abilities as a writer, and send out my work. I struggle with writer’s doubt. Maybe you do, too. Never mind the husband telling me over and over again that I’m a good writer; what I focus on instead is the negative voice inside my head that says “you’re not good enough”. Despite getting straight A’s to date in the Professional Writing Certificate program I’m currently enrolled in, I remember what a hard slog my technical writing contract of last spring was. At one point, I was completely demoralised when the lead technical writer changed almost every sentence of a document I’d edited.

I got to the point where I’d had enough of letting fear and self-doubt hold me back and decided to take a big gulp, put on my big girl panties and overcome this inertia. I’ve become less bashful with my submitting my words, less intimidated by the process and less willing to have my prose sit on my external hard drive.

My stories and articles and pitches are being sent out now. And not just to places that know me, like our church’s newsletter.

Lo and behold, I’ve had pieces accepted in the past year. By complete strangers no less who, one assumes, recognize good writing. I’ve had a non-fiction article published in a Canadian magazine and a short story, Bullying: A Success Story, will be published shortly by short storiescafé.com who “feel it is a well-written, empowering story that would be great to include on Short Stories Cafe.”

And, with every acceptance, doubt and fear take a back seat. I’ve learned: nothing cramps creativity’s style like those two “devils on my shoulder”. Hence, I’m inspired to write and look for places to send my writing to. Word by word, acceptance by acceptance, belief replaces fear and doubt and I dare to hope: maybe this here writing thing will work out after all.

As for the colleague who changed all my sentences? I’ve given her control-freaky self the middle-finger salute.

Kathy Dueck is a married writer with two cats from Calgary, Alberta Canada. She's a non-conformist, a burgeoning activist, a recipe developer, a voracious reader, a patron of the arts [which is a fancy way of saying she watches way too many movies and TV shows], a blogger, and a volunteer. She believes that “going to church doesn’t make you a Christian anymore than standing in a garage makes you a car” and likes to think that “if church were a washing machine, I would be the agitator.”

Kathy has two blogs, one is a food and recipe blog www.chronicinthekitchen.com and the other a "personal" blog called FibroDAZE http://bignoises.wordpress.com/ where she blogs about life and sometimes about life with chronic illness. She also has a photography blog rkdphotocreations.wordpress.com in its' infancy.

It's All in the Words - Short-Short Story Challenge

2013-04-11T09:36:00.002-06:00

Words. Words spill onto the page to create stories for everyone. Young and old. Sad stories, scary stories, happy stories, funny stories, children’s stories, family stories… You never know what you’re going to get when you sit down, pen and paper in hand. You write madly, until finally a story takes shape. Then you edit. Until you have the words just right.
And then you share.

Here’s the challenge.
Write a story in 7 days. You will be given a list story prompts and then have 7 days to write, edit and submit your story. A jury will select a short-list then our judges will choose the winners. The winner will be announced the Writer in Residence Final Reading on June 27, 2013 at Owl’s Nest Books. All finalists will be invited to read their stories along with Lori Hahnel at the final reading closing her residency.

1st prize: A free course voucher from AWCS.
2nd prize: A free Saturday workshop voucher from AWCS.

Finalists stories will be published on the AWCS blog, Writer’s Corner beginning June 1, 2013.
Entry fee: $5
Open to all residents of Alberta.
Contest Judges: Lori Hahnel | J. Jill Robinson | Rona Altrows
How to Enter
Fill out online registration. Pay the $5 entry fee. (Pay online by PayPal, Visa/Mastercard, or send Cash or Cheque to AWCS, 922, 9th Ave SE, Calgary, AB T2G 0S4) All applicants must fill out online registration.

All registered participants will receive the story prompts on May 5, 2013 at 12:00am. Check your email inbox. Choose one and write your story. Stories can be any genre, any topic, as long as one of the story prompts appears in your story.

Maximum 500 words. Typed, double-spaced, in an easy to read font, numbered pages. Title must appear as a header at the top of the page, on every page.

Submit your completed stories by May 11, 2013 11:59pm by email to info@alexandrawriters.org in .doc or .docx format. Names must not appear anywhere on the stories.
In the body of the email please include your name, contact information, title of story and word count.
Have fun. Be creative.

The Clothesline, by Jamal Ali

2013-04-04T07:45:00.003-06:00

The gentle wind soothed the young widow’s loneliness on that bright summer’s day,

in June 2010, the day of her tenth wedding anniversary, in the backyard of her hilltop home. From her perch, while hanging her wash on the clothesline, Yolanta marvelled at the view of the Atlantic. She reminisced about her sailor husband, Alistair, who never returned from that fateful voyage. Alistair and his crew, on their

journey from the Halifax Harbour to San Juan, Puerto Rico, in that summer of yesteryear were never heard from or found, Lucifer in The Devil’s Triangle claimed them. Yolanta reflected on Alistair’s parting words on that morning while embracing and caressing him, “Our love, precious as the sun and moon will forever be in the music of memory, the living oceans and seas.”

The tender touch of her lacy bras and silky panties reminded Yolanta of the nights of lovemaking in these sexy underthings. She whispered, “I surely miss those carnal nights of splendour with my prince under satin sheets” and wondered, would it ever

happen again?

While looking at the celestial sphere and the ocean, Yolanta whispered with a tear, “Oh Aphrodite and Amphitrite, please, please, bring back my Alistair to me. Please, rescue him from Lucifer’s arms, ‘cause he’s my true love.” As she hummed the lyrics to Petula Clark’s song, “Sailor,” tears flowed down Yolanta’s cheeks; she planted her right hand firmly on her chest to the words:

To the harbour of my heart

I will send my love to guide you

As I call across the sea

Come home to me

She hummed favourite love tunes that the couple sang to each other, in their past lives of marital bliss. Yolanta’s secret admirer looks through his dining room window, focusing on the tall, slender brunette and the fluttering lingerie.

Jamal Ali

"Hmm, interesting reading." or "Why are you so weird?"

2013-03-13T09:53:00.001-06:00

Whether the reading is formal or informal, I'm talking about that awkward moment when…

You share your work with a good friend, small group, or large audience, and at the end they just kinda stare.

Okay. No big deal. At least they aren't throwing hot pennies or calling for a pox on your house. What's in a blank gaze anyway?

EVERYTHING YOU FEAR.

That's what. The non-reaction is a Great White Wall upon which you are compelled to project your dreadfuls. The following are just a few examples of what can be read into that blank silence.

"Sorry, what? Were you making mouth sounds just now?"

"I don't get it."

"Is there any way I can get this out of my brain before it sets?"

"I'm embarrassed for you."

Maybe that's just my wall. I can't say what you'd project onto yours. I don't know why glassy-eyed stares can't ever be a positive thing in my mind, like…

"I am rendered expressionless in the presence of this living treasure."

Bwahahaha!

For me the scariest part about reading isn't the worry that I'll stumble over a word or my voice might shake. It's the Wall. That white expanse demanding the harsh pigments of my interpretation.

Perhaps I need to work on that. Rewriting the wall. Or maybe just leaving it blank.