It was true that Frank’s father had a somewhat obsessive compulsive nature but he was, for the most part, a peaceful man. This particular obsession, though, could be laid squarely at the feet of Barleybix breakfast cereal and their contest to win an all-expenses paid trip to the Montreal Olympics. The Olympics were a particular passion for both of them. Every four years they would rent a TV and watch the events from dawn to dusk in grainy black and white. Frank’s father dreamed of one day attending this fabulous sporting event but for a single parent on the dole, this was unlikely to happen.

Barleybix changed all that. For one thing, they ate a lot of it. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not that Frank minded much but as his father was determined to win the grand prize and as the Olympics were still six months away, meal times became a little bland.

Every week his father sent off another entry and every week he bought seven new boxes of the cereal. Every day, Frank found Barleybix in his school lunchbox (chucked over the hedge at Mrs. Brown’s house on the corner before he reached the bus stop). Longing for a change of pace, Frank bought loaves of bread and chunks of cheese with his pocket money.

Jerome thought long an’ hard ‘bout wearin’ the red cap to his session with Charlie “The Sheep” Mouton, and his friend Sax.  He’d found it in a dumpster out back of the Piggly Wiggly. Brand new it looked. What would a feller be doin’ throwin’ away a good cap like that? This one had letters on. Jerome couldn’t read too good but he sure knew what they were. MAGA. Make ‘Merica Great Again. That’s what it was.  Jerome weren’t sure ‘bout that. Ain’t never been nothin’ great for him. Ain’t never been nothin’ great for anyone he knew, ‘cept these days folks was dyin’ faster and nothing done to take away the pain. Make ‘Merica Great Again. Well it sure weren’t that, no sir! He shoulda voted last time. Preacher said it was your duty. Jerome didn’t know ‘bout that either. See, them fellers calling theyselves Governors and such, they didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout the likes of Jerome and Charlie “The Sheep” and Sax. Them in their fancy cars and their fancy houses and their fancy plastic wives in their fancy clothes. Never knew a day’s hunger in all their born days. No sir! Jerome’s way of thinkin’ they were the real ignorant ones. They knew nothin’ ‘bout anything couldn’t be bought. They knew nothin’ ‘bout the simple things, like pickin’ bass and suckin’ back beers; your best friends blowin’ the sweet lovin’ Jesus outta their horns and all the folks gatherin’ ‘round on a Sat’day afternoon. Yes sir! That’s where the riches was. That’s where ‘Merica was great. No need to make it into anythin’ else. Them rich folks was just too dumb to see. There was riches everywhere, had nothin’ to do with money.

Jerome set the cap square on his head and looked in his scabby ol’ mirror. MAGA. Music and Gratitude ‘Merica! That’s what it’ll stand for now. All the rest of it belonged in that dumpster; all them liars and cheaters and grifters. Music was where it was at. Jerome grinned at himself, picked up his bass, locked his door and headed for Charlie’s.

Clo Carey – January 2021

Wednesday Prompt #writersink @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting #inauguration2021 #newbroom #endoftrump

*this piece was originally written in October 2020. Re-posting again because, well…

Most of the crowd arrived last night, happy to sleep rough; secure a decent spot.  The dawn rain did little to dampen their enthusiasm as the weight of the last four tyrannical years lifted from their shoulders.

Now things would improve. 

Now there would be jobs and healthcare and housing and food and vaccines.

The ultra-rich would be taxed and the poor would not. Life would return to some semblance of normal, where people were kinder; death no longer stalked the streets.

The air might be filled with the stench of unwashed bodies but it crackled with excitement and ballooning hope. Rumors spread like wildfire as dignitary after dignitary was escorted to their seats.

“There’s the Canadian fella.”

“Is that Tom Cruise?”

“Lift me up, I can’t see.”

They made friends with strangers they’d never see again and laughed and joked; sharing booze and food.

“He’s coming”

“It’s too early.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Pass that joint.”

Brown shoes! Why had he worn brown shoes? He was playing Death for Chrissakes. Everyone knew that Death wore black shoes. Black suit, black shoes. It said so on the costume list. Every year the same. Sister Concertina would never forgive him; that mouth of hers bunched up like a sundried tomato. And the bishop would be all for excommunicating him. After all, it wasn’t often that a member of the congregation was allowed to audition for the annual production of Everyman. He had given it his best shot and he hadn’t got the part. Father Flynn did; pompous git that he was. Joe got to be understudy. But then Father Flynn had tied on one too many at the yacht club last Saturday night, went out in his yacht, and hadn’t been seen since. That had worked out well.

Now Joe had his big chance. Everyone said he was perfect for the part with his rangy frame and his lugubrious disposition. But brown shoes? He would have to perform in his socks. Yes, that would do the trick. No one would notice. Joe looked around the empty church. Where could he hide his shoes? Kicking them off, he nipped up to the altar and stuck them under the cloth. Sure there was a bit of a bulge but no one would notice. They’d all be focused on the play. He tiptoed down the steps and sat again, waiting. The church bell tolled seven times. Wait a minute, where is everyone? With panic rising, Joe checked his mobile. Mon, April 12. Shite, the performance was last night. Why had no one called him? He’d missed his big break, him and his brown shoes.

 

Clo Carey – May 2020

Blog challenge @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting

#WriteHereWriteNow writing prompt @inkwellHQ @themariamchale

They call it a golden parachute. I called it the get-out-of-jail-free card; the lump sum that hits you on the way out of the same door that you’ve entered all your working life. That was before my new reality landed. I was paid off, good and simple. Redundant! On the scrap heap. My office chair occupied by a cute young thing, niece of the CEO, goddaughter of the area manager, fluff. Thirty years of service but nepotism rules. Oh, they gave me the party. Pot-luck with balloons and noisemakers and Betty from accounting’s leathery lasagne. There were a few teary eyes; none of them were mine.

Richard Hughes image

The problem going forward was what to DO. I was single, not particularly attractive, not especially talented and just going on fifty. Half a century isn’t a whole life, is it? I have never DONE anything; always preferred to take my two weeks paid leave as extra days tacked onto long weekends during which I read books, caught up with my laundry, went out with the girls, patted the cat. Thirty years of nothing much at all.

As parachutes go it wasn’t exactly winning the lottery. One year’s wages and that didn’t add up to much. No recourse to getting anything more out of the tight-fisted bastards once I accepted it either, but it was that or the firing squad, so what’s a girl to do? Apply for another job? Sit tight until pension time? Invest the nest egg wisely? I’ve been sensible for thirty years. Time for a change in direction.

Now that I’ve got time on my hands, my hands turn to Google and I’m searching out all the places I’d like to see. Bucket list places, like Iceland and Italy and Ireland. A quick figuring of the cost of it all and I’m reckoning I could blow the parachute in six months, no problemo. Then I ease on over to thinking road trip. If I got myself one of those camper vans, me and the cat could drive across Canada and back across the US (political situation having hopefully improved); put my stuff in storage; save on rent. Yes, I could just about manage that. I cover my small dining table with maps and plans and notes and guidebooks, planning a future for the first time in my life.

And it all goes really well. My notice on the apartment is given. The movers and the storage unit booked. I find a cheap camper on Kijiji, a little worn around the edges but it’s mine. It’s a sort of pinky-beige and has a roof rack. I call it Moose. It even has a toilet and shower and a kitchen and a fold out bed which the cat dozes off on, so it is definitely cat approved. I take a week to clean it out until it sparkles. Then I drop some of the parachute on the mechanic who sighs a lot while inspecting under the hood and even more when he gets it up on the hoist.

Pinterest image no attribution

A week before we are to leave, my mother comes to ‘visit’. She arrives at the apartment carrying a chocolate mousse and a suitcase. She has left husband number five and came over as soon as she finished her bridge game. She will stay until she finds another man, she says. I explain that I no longer have a job and I will be leaving soon. The only thing that she takes from the conversation is the number of noughts in the golden parachute. My mother likes money immensely. She just can’t hang onto it. I tell her she can stay until the movers arrive. After that she’s on her own, even without another man. She hangs around eating chocolate mousse; drinking my beer; painting her nails; posting her profile on dating sites.

I keep busy packing the camper. In go my food, my clothes, my cash, and treats for the cat. We are ready for the off. On the last morning I ride with the movers to the storage unit. Then I walk back through familiar streets. It’s sunny with a hint of Spring in the air. I breathe deep and stride along. The future awaits. I’m prepared, I exhilarated. When I round the last corner I break into a run. The camper is gone, and so is my mother, and so is the cat.

iStock image

 

Clo Carey – April/20

Blog Challenge One Word Prompt – Mousse/Moose

#SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting #writingprompt  #blogchallenge

Angeline’s last impressions were of a loud bang, shattering glass and antlers. She was oblivious to the blood seeping from her veins and the car flipping several times before    it came to rest in a gully. Her life did not flash before her eyes; it simply ended in black.

Truth be told she had been thinking about her life. The empty, non-event of it: the dreary, dullness of it. The more she thought, the closer the pedal crept to the metal, despite the horizontal rain, the buffeting wind, the slick conditions on the road. In the minutes before the crash, her mind was occupied with the lateness of the hour and how she had avoided handing out candy to the motley assortment of neighbourhood kids who swarmed their house every Halloween. Her mother would have reached a fever pitch of disappointment by the time she got home. The speedometer ticked 130 k.

Angeline’s mind had jumped, as minds do, to Halloweens of her own childhood and the costumes into which she was forced by her overbearing parent. Costumes designed to set off her princess qualities, not her tomboy nature. “Here is my beautiful little Tinkerbell/Cinderella/ Snow White/Aurora,” her mother would gush to assembled and assorted friends and relatives; over-compensating for the fact that Angeline was an only child, father unknown; attempting vicarious living through her flaxen-haired, blue-eyed child.

With high hopes, her mother entered Angeline in beauty pageants; losing interest only when, after years of froth and frill, Angeline stubbornly refused to don wigs and make-up. Her mother signed her up for modeling school but Angeline hacked off all her hair the day of the portfolio photoshoot. Her mother dragged her to theatre school but at last gave up the fight when Angeline refused to audition for starring roles, preferring to run the lighting cues.

“You’re a real disappointment to me,” her mother said.

It was uttered frequently enough as Angeline graduated high school with an 85% average and college with a degree in Library Arts. The lack of boyfriends, a glittering social life, a husband, house and babies were also real disappointments through the years.

Angeline struggled not to be a disappointment to herself but it wasn’t easy. Yoked by the burden of never measuring up, she buried her nose in books and escaped to happier worlds. She had done well enough in her career, it was true but she was now in her thirties, still lived with her mother and preferred the company of women to men. Despite her feisty childhood nature, her adult years had settled her into apathy. Escape was something she was incapable of contemplating.

“You’re a real disappointment…” and a great black shape lurched onto the road out of the fog. A real disappointment. Yes.

 

“…It was a dark and stormy night out there folks. Ha ha. Hurricane force winds and flooding were reported in several regions, so mind how you go. Hope you are all perked up ready to tackle a brand new day. This is Jerry Hound Dawg Spinner on CKJC bringing you the morning roadkill report…”

Dave Wiles switched off the radio and smiled. No need to listen today, he had already scored. He stopped the winch as the battered carcass of the stag swung over the bed of his truck. There would be weeks of good eating on this one despite the damaged flesh. He walked around to the off-road side of the truck to take a leak and noticed deep scores in the grass verge. He peered over the edge and was already dialing 911 before he reached the wreck. The woman inside was obviously dead, judging by the lack of a pulse, the grey-green pallor of her face and the rusty red stains on the interior. She looked otherwise unmarked, peaceful and serene. Dave sighed. She was beautiful, even in death, with her blonde hair and her dainty features. What a waste. Her purse lay on the ground where it must have fallen through the shattered windscreen. Dave checked the contents of the wallet and pocketed the bills. She won’t need them after all. There wasn’t too much else; none of the usual female clutter that his wife never left home without. There were a few tissues, a bookmark, some breath mints, a notebook, credit cards, and ID. He considered pocketing these as well but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. The face on the driver’s license stared out at him, alive but sombre. Angeline Murray, pleased to meet you. He opened the notebook more to pass the time than anything else. Every line was filled with the phrase ‘I am NOT a real disappointment’. Dave gazed at the beautiful, dead face and sighed. You wouldn’t have been a disappointment to me, Babe! And he clambered back up to his truck.

 

 

Clo Carey Feb/20

Blog challenge 2020 one word prompt: disappointment

#SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting #shortstory #amblogging #shortfiction #flashfiction

#write28days Feb24

James wheeled himself into the pits. Today was the day. He had dreamed of this moment since the accident had left him paralyzed ten years before. Ten years a speed demon trapped in a chair. You’ll never drive again, the doctors said, but never was not a word James was familiar with. He would drive again and his first time out would not be any old street troll. No, he was going to conquer Nürburgring/The Green Hell.

He breathed in the heady mix of pine, exhaust and high octane fuel. The racetrack, nestled in a wooded area of Germany, had been his goal, top of his bucket list since he was a boy, watching legendary drivers like Stuck and Zakowski tackle the extreme course. When he became a junior test driver for BMW, he thought his life was made.      24 years old and on top of the world. Until that day, and the ultimate irony.  It wasn’t a driving accident. No, skiing top speed into a tree did the damage; left him a quad in a chair.

Helmet on; his teammates lifted him into the Porsche Spyder that sat gleaming in the shaft of sun that broke briefly through the heavy clouds. He fastened his chest belt, sat back and revved the specially adapted hand paddles. The Porsche gave an appreciative growl. He was ready!

He was booked for one round but he was going for two. The first, to feel out the course. The second, to be the real deal. It was pouring again. Conditions were slick; concentration was prime. He eased the powerful car around the curves; steady as she goes; skills still at his fingertips. This was Nürburgring. He had arrived. One of his team gave him the chequered flag as he crossed the finish line. He waved as he passed the pits, heading for round two and glory.

250k: the Spyder achieved airborne at Bergwerk. James didn’t care. He’d conquered Nürburgring. He was free!

Clo Carey Feb/20

Blog challenge “Spider” one-word prompt

#SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626          #amwriting #writingprompt #shortstory #Nürburgring #PorscheSpyder

#write28days Feb12

Errors are my own.

Joe bumped through the door, the contents of the tray sliding precariously then settling as he straightened it out.

“How are you today, Mum? Here’s your breakfast.”

“Ah Joey, you are a good boy. Such a good boy to your old mum.”

Joe hooked his arms under her armpits and heaved her upwards, yanking the pillows into a hummock behind her back. He could feel the bones through the crepey skin. She smelt of pee and old person. He moved over to the window and opened the curtains. It was a dour day outside with rain pending. Joe glowered at the clouds.

“Window open or shut?”

“Shut, I think dear, it looks like rain.” With an exhausted sigh, she leaned back against the pillows. They aren’t very comfortable but she hasn’t the strength to move them.

Joe placed the tray on her knees, slopping some of the tea. “There you are, tea and toast just the way you like them.”

“Thank you, Joey.”

“I’ll look in on you later. Take the tray away.” Joe whistled his way down the stairs and into the kitchen where he tucked into his fry-up. Breakfast finished, he poured himself a second cup of tea and took it into the living room; turfing the cat off the couch. The remains of last night’s fish and chips licked down to the paper. Stupid cat. He turned on the telly but doesn’t watch, preferring the company rather than the content. He flicked to the want ads in the paper; reading each one carefully. There’s nothing he’s qualified to do. Nothing that interests him.  He’d like to be an astronaut or a detective but hasn’t the least clue where to get those kinds of jobs. Truth be told, he hasn’t had a job since he was laid off in his thirties. But he needs to do something.  Mum isn’t going to last much longer. The signs are all there. The wasting, the pain, the shortness of breath. All signs of a person in decline. A person not long for this world. Without her pension, well…

Joe sighed. He was a house painter for a few months but fell off the ladder and spilled paint all over the pavement and that was the end of that. He can make curry and boiled eggs and toast but that was the extent of his culinary skills. He can grow weed but now that it was regulated, for his own use only. He could try his hand at dog walking but most of the folks round here walked their own dogs and they were all on the dole too.

His caseworker at the job center told him to bring a list of his skills the next time he came to sign on. Said they would help him work on his curriculum vitae. The story of his work life. Not that there was much to tell.

She’d been telling him for years and he never had. This time she said if he didn’t, he wouldn’t get any money. Joe sighed again. He knew the signs. This person was losing patience with him. He’d better do as she asked. Joe fetched a pencil from the drawer in the kitchen and wrote on the back of an old flyer. It wasn’t a very long list.

Listening – he was good at that.

Music – he liked to sing in the bath on Saturdays nights.

Grow Cannabis – he had his own grow-op in the basement.

Delivering – he couldn’t drive but he could fetch and carry.

Neutering animals – he saw it on the telly and knew all about it.

After much thought, he added, “I would like to try dog walking or being an astronaut if there are any jobs for that”.

There, that should do. He folded his list and put it in his back pocket; grabbed his jacket and left the house. Soon he would have a job and his worries would be behind him. With a feeling of accomplishment, he strode out towards the Job Center and was killed instantly when a billboard fell on his head.

Media Focus

 

Clo Carey Feb/20

Blog challenge One Word Prompt: Signs

#SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626               #amwriting #writingprompt  #blogchallenge

#write28days Feb8

 

“You’re the next generation, son, you have to learn the ropes.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Ah now, son! Why would you not wish to follow in your old dad’s footsteps, and that of his dad and his before him?”

“I don’t think it’s an honourable profession.” Kicks at gravel.

“Honourable! How can you say that? It’s been our profession since the days of horse and buggy. We adapted to the coming of the motor car, didn’t we? How can you say it’s not honourable.”

“Well it’s not, it’s dishonest.” Hands in pockets.

“Dishonest! And what would you call those gougers in government? What would you call shareholders and CEOs in the banks and the insurance trade. Dishonest! Not an honest man among them and you call into question the honour of your families profession?”

“We get our earnings by dishonest means. That’s not honourable.” Head down, pouting.

“Us and 90% of the rest of the population.”

“That’s semantics. We get money through trickery. I want no part of it. I want to do something honourable.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe journalism.”

“Ha! You don’t think those fuckers cheat. Bringing severed limbs to accident sites and misrepresenting the truth.”

“They’re not all like that.”

“How would you know?”

Shrug

Silence

“Will you not give it a try? Just once?”

“No, I told you.”

Takes a drag on a cigarette and tosses it aside. “I don’t understand. I mean look around you. This house, your fancy schooling, the exotic vacations. If we didn’t have our profession, we’d have none of it.”

“It means nothing. I don’t want any of it.”

“You do realize your standard of living will drop considerably if you leave the fold.”

“It’s nothing against the family, Da, I just want a normal life.”

“But can’t you see, if you’re not for us you’re against us and we can’t have that.”

“Is that a threat?”

“We think of it from our point of view. Think of all you know. Having you loose in the world would not allow us to sleep any easier.”

“You’d threaten your own son?”

“I have the honour of the family to consider.”

Silence.

“I mean look at you. You have the perfect build for it. You’re athletic; you’re quick on your feet; good at gymnastics and judo. These are important skills. Uncle Benjy would be happy to put you through your  paces again. Polish up the manoeuvres that are rusty. You used to love it as a kid. You were one of the best.”

“I was one when I was a kid?”

“You were indeed. Best we’d ever seen. Your timing was impeccable. They never knew what hit them. And of course, being a kid, the payoffs were terrific.” Lights another cigarette.

“How come I don’t remember?”

Shrugs “There was the concussion the one time. That might have done it.”

“And I was good at it?”

“You were. Made us pots of money. Best fall artist we ever had.”

“So you pimped me out even then?”

“Ah now son, don’t look at it like that.”

“I’m leaving Dad. I’m outta here.”

“Suit yourself.” Tosses the cigarette. Grinds it underfoot.

The garden gate clicks.

A screech of brakes. A thud.

“Mind your back there, son, mind your back.”

 

Clo Carey – September 2019

South Shore Scribes One Word prompt: fall

blog challenge “Fall” #SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca   @https://chasscribbless.blogspot.com @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #Fall #nonsensewriting #amwriting #onewordprompt #OneWord

 

Galaxy tosses her head and taps her foot, waiting impatiently while the designer’s assistant pins the last of the tulle into place. Why was it always such chaos backstage at a show? They were never ready, always frantically pinning and hemming right up until the model steps through the curtain. She glances quickly in the mirror, rolling her massive brown eyes at the ludicrous headpiece that has been fashioned onto her head; two horns integrated with ribbons and chiffon, sequins and a model Spanish galleon. Whatever next? The dress crackles as she moves; the combination of tulle, net and rip-stop nylon uncomfortable to wear, even harder to sell to the rows of moneybags squatting on the dainty gold seats beyond, awaiting the next creation.

A roar goes up as Galaxy makes her entrance. Head and shoulders above the other girls, she owns the runway. Acknowledging the acclaim that her status affords her, she stretches her long neck and struts on legs that go on for days, down one side and up the other, pausing only long enough to flip her tail-end so the train of this hideous dress fans out behind her to the oohs and aahs of the groupies; then sashays leisurely back, in no particular hurry to re-join the chaos backstage.

The show progresses. Galaxy yawns while a new topknot is affixed and more garments are fitted to her perfect body. She bats her long eyelashes at press photographers and sips a glass of champagne, much to the consternation of the make-up artist stationed by her chair to repair small damages caused by the arrival and departure of each new creation. Galaxy smiles, removed from it all, drifting off into her thoughts. She is at the top of her game and all the other girls know it. Gone are the days when they made fun of her height or her name, which her agent wanted to change to Galaxia for more exotic impact. One glance in the mirror convinces Galaxy that she is quite exotic enough. After all, she is the only giraffe on the fashion circuit and that has to count for something, doesn’t it? Galaxy she remains; celebrated model, highest paid ruminant and toast of fashion weeks across the world.

Photo Credit: Franz van Heeren

Galaxy – Clo Carey March 2019

blog challenge “Galaxy” South Shore Scribes NS @www.emilybowers.ca   @https://chasscribbless.blogspot.com  @https://contentinretirement.blogspot.com @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #galaxy #nonsensewriting #amwriting #fashionweek