.
April has come and gone, too quickly, too quietly. Spring didn’t celebrate this year, and those of us who live on the Manitoba prairies are still in waiting, as if pacing a hospital waiting room for the birth of our beloved.
The snow exited ever so slowly that its departure is still under suspicion. It’s another sunless afternoon as I sit here, another five degree day. Winter apparel is still close at hand: scarves, gloves, a toque. Sigh.
There are however some things that don’t wait on Mother Nature to laud the seasons. One of them is Other Voices literary magazine, who just last night launched their spring edition! The site hasn’t been updated yet and I have yet to receive my brag copy in the mail, so I’ll have to go on blind faith that my name appears in the index. Interesting I should mention faith...hmm...
The ‘other voice’ not waiting for permission is May Day, that gathering of creative spontaneous outbursts of daily poetry for one month every year. I am once again very pleased to have been invited to participate! I hope you’ll join me there when you can.
I had hoped to finish my story by month end, but it would seem that The Girl in the Mirror will likely not be showing her face until June. And so, I wish you all a happy May, and I wish all of us 31 days of SUNSHINE!
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Thursday, 30 April 2009
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Saturday, 25 April 2009
The Girl in the Mirror
.
part iii:
.
She is woken by the sun glaring through the window of her hotel room. She’d forgotten to shut the drapes. With the opening of her lids come images of last night’s venture, the four martinis, the invitation made to a stranger . . .
At first, she can’t tell if the knocking is in her head or at the door. She hears the whir of something being slipped under her door and the noise ceases. Natasha sits up, holding her head in the palms of her hands, rubs her burning eyes.
In the washroom she grabs a wash cloth and holds it under the faucet as she peeks in the mirror. She washes every trace of colour from her tired face, then looks again in the glass, and lets out a disappointed sigh before returning to the bedroom.
Natasha remembers the knock and takes the few steps toward the door, where an envelope lies in waiting.
.
part iii:
.
She is woken by the sun glaring through the window of her hotel room. She’d forgotten to shut the drapes. With the opening of her lids come images of last night’s venture, the four martinis, the invitation made to a stranger . . .
At first, she can’t tell if the knocking is in her head or at the door. She hears the whir of something being slipped under her door and the noise ceases. Natasha sits up, holding her head in the palms of her hands, rubs her burning eyes.
In the washroom she grabs a wash cloth and holds it under the faucet as she peeks in the mirror. She washes every trace of colour from her tired face, then looks again in the glass, and lets out a disappointed sigh before returning to the bedroom.
Natasha remembers the knock and takes the few steps toward the door, where an envelope lies in waiting.
.
Friday, 24 April 2009
The Girl in the Mirror
.
part ii:
.
The reflection she sees is someone else’s. Nope. It isn't her. Can't be, this woman looking back at her in the glass. Her cheeks are swollen, her eyes sunken, streaks of yellow shows through where she had taken such care to make herself up earlier that evening.
She had looked so pretty just two hours ago. She so needed to feel pretty again, to be desired. “Wow...what a fucking great idea this was, Nat!” she says to the girl in the mirror.
It's been three weeks since Natasha’s arrival in Tacoma, three weeks of treatments that are making her horribly sick. But days like today, one of the better ones, the loneliness seems worse than the radiation piercing her skin and organs.
Of course, she hadn’t told any of this to Chuck or Bob or whatever his name is. She had needed to feel normal again, if only for a few hours. But then, Chuck or Bob or whatever his name is, didn’t think much of the clump of hair he’d been left holding during the adventurous exploration of Nat.
The spewing that started then? A combination of meds and booze she figures, was the final hurrah for pretty boy. Natasha wouldn't be seeing him anytime soon. That is really the only thing she feels any certainty about, when she lays her head down on the pillow that night.
.
part ii:
.
The reflection she sees is someone else’s. Nope. It isn't her. Can't be, this woman looking back at her in the glass. Her cheeks are swollen, her eyes sunken, streaks of yellow shows through where she had taken such care to make herself up earlier that evening.
She had looked so pretty just two hours ago. She so needed to feel pretty again, to be desired. “Wow...what a fucking great idea this was, Nat!” she says to the girl in the mirror.
It's been three weeks since Natasha’s arrival in Tacoma, three weeks of treatments that are making her horribly sick. But days like today, one of the better ones, the loneliness seems worse than the radiation piercing her skin and organs.
Of course, she hadn’t told any of this to Chuck or Bob or whatever his name is. She had needed to feel normal again, if only for a few hours. But then, Chuck or Bob or whatever his name is, didn’t think much of the clump of hair he’d been left holding during the adventurous exploration of Nat.
The spewing that started then? A combination of meds and booze she figures, was the final hurrah for pretty boy. Natasha wouldn't be seeing him anytime soon. That is really the only thing she feels any certainty about, when she lays her head down on the pillow that night.
.
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
The Girl in the Mirror
.
part i:
.
“What the fuck...” He tosses out in disgust.
“Sorry,” she stammers and runs to the washroom. She wishes she could disappear. With the click of the lock she wishes him gone too.
The cold water is running and Natasha leans into the sink, unable to distinguish her tears from the sweat brought on by her vomiting. Sometimes Natasha passes out when she vomits. That’s what she fears now, washing off the acrid taste on her lips with the cold, numbing sprinkling of water.
She hears a door shut, out there. He’s left, she thinks. She lets out a sigh of relief and dares for the first time to look at the face in the mirror.
.
part i:
.
“What the fuck...” He tosses out in disgust.
“Sorry,” she stammers and runs to the washroom. She wishes she could disappear. With the click of the lock she wishes him gone too.
The cold water is running and Natasha leans into the sink, unable to distinguish her tears from the sweat brought on by her vomiting. Sometimes Natasha passes out when she vomits. That’s what she fears now, washing off the acrid taste on her lips with the cold, numbing sprinkling of water.
She hears a door shut, out there. He’s left, she thinks. She lets out a sigh of relief and dares for the first time to look at the face in the mirror.
.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Monday, 6 April 2009
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Friday, 3 April 2009
Thursday, 2 April 2009
angel of hope
.
the angel outside my front door
is hard to make out
from the deluge
of heavy
wet
April snow
. . .an amorphous outline
bequeaths it vast wings
that look more like a
halo encircling a
teacup sized head
that is also hard to make out
. . .he has short
chicken-like legs
less weighed down on
the white canvass
than his body, sunken in,
. .heavy
. . .still, i love
the angel outside my front door,
beauty to these sad sunken eyes
. . .i am told it will stay
long after the
April snows have melted,
this angel of mine,
my angel of hope.
.
.
the angel outside my front door
is hard to make out
from the deluge
of heavy
wet
April snow
. . .an amorphous outline
bequeaths it vast wings
that look more like a
halo encircling a
teacup sized head
that is also hard to make out
. . .he has short
chicken-like legs
less weighed down on
the white canvass
than his body, sunken in,
. .heavy
. . .still, i love
the angel outside my front door,
beauty to these sad sunken eyes
. . .i am told it will stay
long after the
April snows have melted,
this angel of mine,
my angel of hope.
.
.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
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