Dusty trophies
That were meant to be sold to successes
Watch through glass of eyes
As the clerk cuts their sandwich
Over the naked counter
Listening to the news
Yet another premeditated disaster
Of economy; of existence.
The crumbs crowd the glass.
With a tenderness, the clerk runs a lotioned finger over a dry tongue.
Patting the crumbs, like a bee on a bulb,
The clerk closes their eyes as if to sleep.
The bell!
A customer.
The clerk swipes a dry paper napkin over her moistened crevices.
The greeting was an odd on both ends.
The stores seem to be the deepest of catacombs.
The customer combed the store calmly for the sake of politeness.
The clerk kept her daze at the door for the sake of politeness.
The winding shelves channeled the customer, past cards and syrups and dolphin figurines.
“For my granddaughter. I haven’t seen her in two years”.
The clerks smile was faint.
“What do you children enjoy these days?”
To the door: “I don’t know, ma’am”.
The customer brushed the scarves, selecting a candy purple with boisterous roses.
“Perhaps for her games of dress-up”.
It was in the bag before the customer finished their justification.
“Fifteen dollars, please”.
The money over the counter sang.
“You take care, now” was the customers’ fair well, during which the clerk grasped the rest of their sandwich.
The door allowed a brief wash of sunlight.
At the bell, a hollow enveloped the space until the crumble of wrapping paper tickled the silence.
The clerk looked at the bin, and, in one seamless gesture, tossed the wrapping paper
into
the
bin.
She turned her attention to the spectating trophies
and offered a knowing wink
Written by: Sarah C Louise
Tag: story
The Visitor
The woman didn’t have a steady hand, made clear from her wayward eyebrow liner. When she approached the house her eyes were so cemented to the steps that she did not notice me, with coffee and story, sitting on the porch.
“Hello” I said, forming comments about the realtor, the house, and my tenancy, for it seemed a logical conclusion that she may have been hoping to receive a tour of the interior. “You must contact the realtor” was what I decided to say, which sounded kind and firm in my thoughts; just the sort of impression I could feel proud to have had on a stranger.
“Oh, there you are”. She really only saw my toes but seemed much relaxed.
“You must contact the realtor”, I said, rather curtly.
“Oh no, that’s not why I’m here. Have you had any good news recently?”
This was the largest pamphlet for the Watchtower I had seen. They seemed to hire realistic marketers. Each illustration was accompanied with a line of text, such as: “So, who is God?”.
“I’ve received many things like this and I’m not interested”, I answered, with a smile to make up for my tone. I could never achieve the right balance.
“Well, you see, good news would be things like no disease, no war, no famine, and these are all things that the Bible promises”.
Suddenly it appeared that her eyebrow liner was very specifically drawn as it was. The quivering line, the smokey colour. She was a very unsuccessful demon. Her mouth was too affected for further hesitation, but I decided to smite her words before they were able to be remembered.
“This does not interest me but thank you for coming by”.
Her gasp was ghostly: “Oh yes, well, thank you”. The stairs seemed perilous with the defeated woman descending. When she landed, her cement eyes reached her shoulder: “it’s a lovely day to sit and have your breakfast in the sun”.
She confessed to a corruption, out of some rooted respect.
“Yes, it is”. This time I found my balance of tone. I sipped my coffee with patience.
Stony woman, her satchel weighted with pamphlets, approached the neighboring house, pausing briefly before ascending the wooden steps. There was a hollow rumble when she reached the top.
I did not dare look (though I am short in my attention and tall in my curiosity) for I sensed her eyes through the minuscule gaps within the neighbors’ Cedar tree. She glared through the branches with a yelling gaze, but I prospered. It was a pathetic battle, from where I sat, but for her meant the world of her existence. I pitied the preacher, for what does it say of one’s God when one’s world can be so easily discounted.
By: Sarah C Louise
Stories are Stories of Stories
So much is hidden in houses where windows have been jammed for years,
The freshest winds of monumental change can be blocked out by doors and fears.
Yet stories that are hidden are discoveries of life that are thrown in a box for storage.
The mould takes hold before deciphering is performed, rotting the tutelage.
The holiest lesson one can teach us how everything went wrong.
The greatest moral is that everything means everything, and nothing at all, especially to those who can’t listen to words on a page, or touch the flames of a song.
The compass points to faraway hills, where the path will lead to disaster;
The stories tell us that facing those storms will make learning our master.
For which we are needed, all of the time, to grapple and question and plead.
When learning is all one abides to, then learning is all that they need.
Stories are stories of stories,
And they show us how creatures survive:
They fuck up and learn and fuck up again,
Cause this is how one stays alive.
By Sarah C Louise.
Cut-throat Provoke Gun Smoke Castle Moat < Telling a Story
I have told one hundred stories
But now I try to tell them well.
And I’ve lost my understanding
Of how a storyteller tells.
I worry that I’m not so clear
Or that my words are rather plain
Especially, I panic
That my words might cause distain
I want to have aa repetoir
Of which many approve
But always want to make my work
Cause audiences to be moved
This, I’ve becoming cetain
Is only achieved with raw charm
Of which to some will appeal
and to others will alarm
In truth, approval proves to be
A suffocating goal
Instead, I should tell my stories
The way I know they should be told.
Written By: Sarah C Louise
Sarah on the Run
I want to tell one of my stories.
The truck was rumbling as we raced over hills, the ocean sitting peacefully below. “Stuck inside these four walls, Sent inside forever, Never seeing no one nice again”: the perfect song. And my heroic friend, Brad, was calmly controlling this truck (it belonged to his brother, who loved altering the features to make for a larger sound, despite hindering the functionality), letting the wind toss over his smile. We were bound for East Bay, a week of adventuring in the woods and relating summer stories.
And I certainly had some stories. My mind was flashes of the roughest moments: the dream-hallucinations when I camped in the forest of the farm, the scary man who was trying to convince me to watch the football game with him in Drummondville, rolling into town after dark and seeing only dark houses, waking up to find that all of my possessions outside of the tent were stolen, having my tire pop three times in one day in heavy rain. But I got through it.
“Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun, and the first one said to the second one there, “I hope you’re having fun.””
My mission was to bike from Montreal to the head of the Cabot Trail (Baddeck) in Cape Breton to meet an old friend from home for an adventure. I allowed myself twelve days to get there. My bike was a beauty, borrowed from Kate and Michel (my saviours), and was in mint condition for this trip. I was full of feeling like I was going to be stronger after this trip, whatever came of it.
And I was strong: my first day I could only manage 60 kilometers, but after that it was 100, 120, 140, 190. I was becoming stronger every day internally too. I was scared to ask random people if I could set up my tent on their property for the night, but I only received one “no” – and that was a man, on behalf of his old mother (he thought she would be frightened). I was scared to bike on highways in the middle of no where where anything could happen and no one would no me (especially after all my identification was stolen, cell phone, my bike lights (yayee…) – but, thankfully, not my journal). But I got through it all, and I almost made it.
It was five kilometers outside of Whycocomagh, where I’d planned to grab a little snack before racing through the last leg of road before Baddeck, that I heard a great SNAP! Immediately, there was something very different about the way my back wheel was operating, running more and more vigurously against the breaks. A spoke had snapped (too much gear on the back, and not a strong enough wheel). Seemed clear I wouldn’t be going anywhere at all anytime soon, for Whycocomagh didn’t appear to offer many services at all.
I made it to a grocery store where I bought some bananas and a muffin. I knew the answer but asked the clerk “is there anywhere in Whycocomagh that could help me with my bike? I have had some trouble, and need it to get fixed.”
“No, the nearest place to get help with that sort of thing is Sydney, about an hour up the road”.
“By car”.
“Yes, by car. Guess that doesn’t help you much.”
“Well thanks anyway”. As I thought.
“You know, you could go to the blacksmith. It’s just around the corner. I bet they could help you with your bike. Best option around, anyway”.
Woah. “Ya, you know, I will. Thank you”.
This smithy was in a bright red barn. And John (the Smith-er?) had a big grey beard, with the iconic rubber apron. John Mason was the guy I met who welded me a new end to my broken spoke, warned me about biking beside the Canada-day drunks on the Cape Breton roads, invited me to stay at his place for pasta-rhubarb-rum dinner, praised Eat, Pray, Love the film so much that we had to watch it, and offered me a sheep rug to sleep on in his toasty living room among his decorative iron lamps and under his decorative iron fixtures (his inventions, of course). He even offered me his phone so I could call brad, just across the lake, and ask for a ride to the bike shop.
I told John about my trip. How everything had gone wrong and I needed so much help. How my mother loaned me money so I could finish the trip. How people had gone out of their way to help me fix my bike so I could carry on. How I tried and tried to do the trip myself but just couldn’t.
His response?
“Whatever! You needed people. So what? It’s because you needed help that you met everyone you met. People love showing how helpful they can be. They love giving the needy a hand. You helped them by needing help, so don’t be sorry for that. I can speak from experience. You needed my help real bad, and I’m so glad for that”.
Maybe it was the rum talking, but it seemed the truest thing I’d ever heard.
“Well, the night was falling as the desert world began to settle down. In the town they’re searching for us everywhere, but we never will be found”.
I had a lot of heroes on that trip (my mother, John Mason, Brad from East Bay). But I couldn’t have done it without the support of strangers. Those beautiful people who trusted me at the first glance and gave me the momentum I needed to make it to my next destination.
I hope I can be a hero like that to a great many people.
“And the county judge, who held a grudge, will search for ever more.”
By: Sarah C Louise
Surface Sewing Chatter
A woman approaches a counter of a fabric store and puts her items on the counter. There are a few people standing behind her in the line, but the store is relatively bare.
Woman 1: Well hello there!
Woman 2: Yes! Hi! My, it’s been some time hasn’t it?
Woman 1: Yes, it has. But janie says she needs a new skirt for her duet, and that’s being performed in just a month, you know.
Woman 2: That’s so exciting for the girl. And what classes is she doing this year?
Woman 1: Well, she’s doing ballet, of course, but she’s also doing jazz and tap and modern, but what she really likes is hip hop, but, now, I’m not so sure.
The two women laugh. Woman 1 opens her large brown purse and pulls out a curtain-floral wallet and she pulls out her Visa card. She holds it between her fingers and begins tapping it on the counter.
Woman 1: Sounds a bit like a song, eh?
Woman 1 turns to the younger lady standing behind her and performs a little rhythm and then begins laughing
Woman 2: Yup that reminds me of Stacey. She’s been coming in for Courtney, you know, buying all kinds of fabrics. Those costumes are getting more and more wild these days.
Woman 1: Oh ya, well they all have a theme or something to them. So, of course, we’re making a different outfit for each dance every year! Now we have a wardrobe that is wild enough to interest Elton John.
Woman 1 and woman 2 laugh loudly
Woman 1: How is Stacey doing? We used to run into each other at competitions, and at ol Marshalls, of course.
Woman 2: Oh well, you know, she’s doing just fine, You know, as well as she can be, what with Jono hangin himself last summer.
Woman 1: Oh really? I didn’t hear about that.
Woman 2 hands woman 1 the pad for paying by credit card, and Woman 1 punches in the number of her pin.
Woman 2: Oh yup. Stacey said he had a total normal day: Got up early, made his girlfriend some breakfast, worked with Dad a bit in the garage, called Stacey in the afternoon to find out about some missing bag he needed, and when Stacey got home there was Jono in his bedroom, you know. And it was only a couple of minutes later that her husband arrived, and I guess she was just screaming her head off…
Woman 1: Transaction completed………pass to teller….that’s you!
Woman 2: Yup that’s me! And don’t you be forgettin it!
Woman 1: You’re lucky, getting to stay in all day. I said it! I knew Spring wasn’t really here yet because we didn’t have second winter!
Woman 2: Oh you got that right. I heard they’re getting 10cm in Ottawa today
Woman 1: And you can bet that’s comin right for us.
Woman 2: Sure is. You have a good day now.
Woman 1: And you too! I’ll probably be back a few times before the recital.
Woman 2: Well good luck!
Woman 1 exits shop and woman 2 helps the next customer.
By Sarah C Louise
Jenny Likes Mummies
Jenny had a preference for mummies. Her Mommy didn’t know why.
“Oh Jenny, Jenny my sweet! What, oh what, would my dearest little dear like to have painted on her walls by the wonderful artists mommy is going to hire?!??! Name your favourite thing, my pet!”
“Ok Mommy, can I have a mummy on my wall. A really broken one. With rags too”
Jenny’s Mommy just hated this idea. Gross and rotting and ugly and wrong! So wrong! Mommy wondered what was wrong with her Jenny wenny?
“Oh, but don’t you want a bunny? Or wouldn’t you love a white dove? Or maybe a snow fox would be nice? Don’t you think?”
“No, Mommy, no, I don’t like those things. I really like Mummy’s though, deep under ground with jewels and crowns. I like the ones they find in bogs and the ones they dig up in sandy castles. Mommy, I want a Mummy, please and thank you.”
Jenny smiled like the other girls. She had manners too. She seemed to be growing quite healthy. But something was not right.
Jenny seemed to begin to look like a Mummy to Jenny’s Mommy. Jenny’s skin looked darker and rougher. Jenny wore her gold necklaces and wrapped toilet paper around her arms and legs, lying with her arms crossed on the bathroom floor.
“Jenny! Oh! This is not a happy, fun-times game, my love! Don’t you want to play house? Or maybe Fairies? Or maybe, my dear, we can make cupcakes!”
“No mommy, no, I am a Mummy, and mummy’s don’t do anything by wait to be discovered. I’m a queen Mummy, so I am hard to find”
“Jenny! My dear, Mummy’s are yucky! No more Mummy games! You can be a puppy or a butterfly, but not a Mummy! I won’t stand for it”
“No mommy, I’m a mummy.”
And that was that. Jenny’s Mommy had to make Jenny a Mummy costume every year, because it kept breaking disintegrating. Jenny wouldn’t change her mind, no matter how hard her Mommy tried.
Invitation from Georgia
It had arrived in her staff mailbox last Friday. Sandy was overwhelmed by the rose scented paper, the rich black ink, the gold deckled envelope. Sandy felt honoured, and she knew just what she had to do.
She was on the number four headed to the mall. They just happened to have a sale on the fancy new kitchenaid mixer model. They had some in champagne, which would match Sandy’s paint colours perfectly. To prepare for her purchase, Sandy had decided to wear her black faux fur coat with her silver handbag.
The sun was shining brighter than Sandy has expected. The forecast had warned her of high, chilly winds. A tiny part of her wished that she’d chosen her grey, equally flattering coat. She could feel her cheeks glowing red, and was grateful for the high collar of the coat. She clutched the handle on the top of the seat in front of her to ground her as the bus twisted and turned.
She could just imagine the dinner party. Surely Georgia would have napkin rings, and decorative cake plates, and wines from five continents. She wondered who else had received their invitation. She was sure the aromas of the room would be a feast enough. Georgia’s very own home…
Her glasses were slidding slowly down the ridge of her nose as she looked out the window. It was a slushy winter day, much too mucky for her wool boots. She spotted the bank, a TD on the corner just 10 minutes from the mall. She felt a little panic; she knew she wouldn’t be paid until next week. Maybe it was a bit of a rushed decision, to go out and buy this kitchenaid when she couldn’t afford to fly to Calgary to see her Mother. But it was part of the experience. Besides, how long had it been since Sandy had treated herself?
Sandy had invented the perfect plan. Her mother had made much loved sweet-potato cupcakes in her day. Sandy was reminded of their deliciousness at every family function, where the famed cupcakes made for regular lamenting. Sandy knew that it was the last thing Georgia would be expecting. Who knew! They might even draw more attention then the inevitable treasures Georgia would prepare.
Sandy was considering the options for candying pecan garnishes when a green bottle slid out from under a seat and knocked the back of Sandy’s feet. Sandy picked up the bottle and she turned around to deliver the bottle to it’s owner. There was a young girl with peculiar hair and a dense coat. She was writing furiously in her notebook. She hadn’t noticed Sandy turn around.
“Here you are” Sandy confirmed. She held the bottle above the notebook.
“Oh, that’s not mine” The young woman held her pen at the ready.
“Well, who’s is it?”
“I don’t know, it’s a mystery!” The girl smiled in a goofy sort of way and returned to her words. Sandy had an impulse to throw the bottle before the girls concentrated face.
Sandy returned, blundered. She held her hand containing the bottle below the level of the seats and tossed the bottle. The bottle bounced vigerously, echoing abruptly with every motion. It fell aggressively against the boot of a tired old woman. As though welcoming Sandy to pergatory, the woman creeked, grinding her bones until she caught Sandy’s glance from the edges of her withered eyes.
“Sorry, Madam” Never had a person of elderly age instilled such threat. The woman kept her contact with Sandy far beyond the realm of time which would suggest that Sandy was forgiven.
Internally Sandy was screaming: “What! I am just taking care of someone else’s mess! This is what I get? You’ve no right to judge me, you crow! Well, that’s very nice. How kind, to tear me apart for a harmless bump! A bottle is hardly a reason to get upset! Get your filthy eyes off of me!”
The old woman successfully reached the depths of Sandy’s soul. Unimpressed with her efforts, she returned, bones grinding heavily as they found a semblence of alignment.
The bottle seemed to be laughing at Sandy: roll roll roll ha ha ha BONK tumble clink HAHAHA BONK BONK PSHHHHPSHSHHHHHAAAAAAHAHAH HA BONK BONK! Sandy stewed. As the bottle attempted a second attack at Sandy’s shoes she made a grab for it, blindly waving her arm under the chair until she clutched the sorry aggressor. Sandy shoved the bottle beside her bag, on the seat next to her. She would take care of it when she arrived at the mall.
Sandy felt a slight burning at the back of her head. She turned abruptly to catch the young girl staring. Ashamed, she pretended to have a burst of inspiration. “Just as I thought”, thought Sandy.
The bottle was disposed beside entrance 52. Sandy charged into the doors. She reminded herself that she loved the fancy mannequins, telling herself that the kids skating on the rink were cute, and applauding herself for getting through that annoying bus ride. She was past it now. She forced herself to raise her chin and pull her shoulders back: the visage of confidence. She smiled at the families running the errands, kids being pulled beyond a pace they could manage. She thought of the champagne mixer that awaited her. She thought of Georgia.
Everything was ready at home. The flour, the cinnamon, the ginger. Ginger was her mother’s secret. She had crimson cupcake liners, the richest colour she could find. She had even picked up vanilla from Madagascar. She wondered what Georgia would say.
The store was fairly crowded, but to Sandy’s luck an employee stood near the entrance, free to abide Sandy’s bidding. Sandy explained about the sale, abour the colour, about the special recipe. The employee understood perfectly, and promptly made her path to fetch the mixer from storage.
Sandy took a great breath. Such fine products lined the shelf. Sandy noticed 10 different colours of salt, all varying degrees of coarseness. Perhaps Georgia would like a little gift, something for being so kind to host. Sandy chose a small container of rose salt. It did seem ridiculous to spend twenty dollars on salt, but what the heck. It was a cause for celebration, really.
Sandy was standing near the til when she noticed the employee emerging from the storage doors. Sandy fluttered, why on earth were her hands empty?
“I’m sorry miss, but it seems the champagne is a real favourite! We sold our last one in the champagne just this morning. We do have five other colours which are equally tempting”.
“No, you don’t understand, I was looking specifically for the champagne”. There was an error. Of course, it wasn’t sold out. How could it be?
“I am awfully sorry. It is so unfortunate that you came all this way only to find out that the one you wanted is the only one we don’t have. I can order one for you, though! We should be able to get one in our next shipment, if you’d like. It usually doesn’t take more than three weeks!”
This employee’s voice was a cheese grater on dry wrists. Sandy couldn’t stay there a moment longer.
Once Sandy made it out of entrance 52 she saw that her bus was there. Sandy knew she had to make a run for it. She hustled through the parkade, diving around puddles and distracted individuals. Sandy was surprised that the bus hadn’t left by the time she could see 87 avenue. She stood a chance. She reached into her handbag to prepare her wallet, being sure to clear the cement parking markers. She got to the tree before the bus terminal when the bus began to roll toward the exit.
Sandy watched it drive away, almost slow enough that she thought she could hop on if it had some sort of balcony as the trains do in movies. But that would never happen.
Sandy pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number of Georgia.
“Oh, Sandy! Why hello! How are you today?”
“Actually Georgia, not so well.”
“Oh no? I’m sorry to hear that. What’s been troubling you?”
Georgia took a moment to shoo away the water trembling behind her eyes. “Well, you see, I’ve been having a bit of a cold”
“Ah, yes, that does put a damper on things, doesn’t it? Well, I’m sorry, Sandy. You’re still coming to the dinner though, aren’t you? I could make you some ginger tea?”
“That’s very nice of you to offer Georgia, but no I don’t think I can after all.”
“Oh no, I’m disappointed.”
“Well, we cannot help these things, can we?”
“Yes, I guess not. Well, if you change your mind you are more than welcome. Get some rest, Sandy”
“Yes, Georgia, I will do just that”.
“Alright then, goodbye”.
“Yes, goodbye now”.
Sandy looked at the grey of the day. A man in crutches gussles the last drops of a listerine bottle and throws it in the trash. Three teenagers in grubby sweaters smoke cigarettes by a pile of ashy snow. Sandy wondered what to do with herself as she waited for the next bus.
By Sarah C Louise
Sarah C Louise 