Tomorrow

She was a fragile young girl with stars in her eyes. At only 13, she looked much older and had the makeup, clothing and personality to prove it. She looked like trouble, but was actually quite responsible.

Her parents were alcoholics who liked to do coke on the weekends… and pretty much ignored her for the most part. They did all of the usual parent things like signing permission slips, picking her up when she needed a ride (sometimes drunk), and making dinner for her on occasion.

They’d spend their weekends bed ridden, with all of the curtains and blinds shut while Sarah cleaned her room, did her own laundry, made herself breakfast and headed out to enjoy the day. She tried to act as normal as she could under the circumstances and didn’t want to be in the house. It felt sad and lonely, always had.

Friends at school knew her parents partied hard and always used to say things like “your parents are so cool, I wish mine were like that”. She usually shot a nervous smile while thinking inside how much she yearned for a Betty Crocker mom. You know, one who loved to clean the house and serve milk & cookies to her friends.

Sarah’s mom was usually either rifling through her purse looking for her keys or a phone number, smoking and endless chain of cigarettes, or sleeping for days getting over one of her binges. Her dad was no better, only he at least worked and was a smidgen more responsible. He wasn’t her real dad… that one left them when she was a baby, but her mother had been with Rick for the longest time and she considered him a dad in a way. Sometimes he would actually talk to her and acknowledge her existence, which was more than her selfish mother did.

It was tragic really, but to Sarah, it was just life. She always said that she would move away and live in residence when she got accepted to University. The mere prospect of that, getting away, living with friends and being away from her parents, was enough to motivate her to do really well at school.

After school one evening Sarah was doing her History homework when her mom emerged on the stairs with her usual 6pm hangover. She glared at Sarah and headed straight to the kitchen to grab a bottle, that was how she started her day… with a drink. Her mom kept unusual hours, dinner was like breakfast to her, and when her mom was well enough to make dinner, it was usually breakfast.

“Hi mom”

“Hi” her mom sort of grunted

“Where’s dad?”

“He had to go pick something up.”

“Drugs?” she asked (which was unusual for her)

“None of your fucking business”

“Why don’t you guys go get help or something… It’s really pathetic mom. You guys can’t even live a normal life. I can’t even have friends over because you embarrass me.”

“Oh gee sorry I don’t fit into your cookie baking, tupperware selling model of a mother Sarah. You really don’t have a clue about life. You’re only 13, you don’t know shit.”

“I know enough to know that you’ve never been a good mother”

Her mother slammed the bottle down on the counter and stormed over to the table where Sarah was doing her homework. She pointed her finger in her daughters face and said “how dare you… how dare you say something like that to me.”

Sarah picked up her books, with tears in her eyes and said “You know what mom… you disgust me. You’re so fucked you don’t even know how to be nice to your own daughter.”

That night Sarah packed a bag, took down her posters, and stole some money out of her dads vault. She headed out the front door while her parents, oblivious to her actions, snorted coke and drank vodka in their bedroom doing god knows what else. She unlocked her bike, stood and stared at the house then rode off.

She showed up at a White house on the escarpment called Hope Place. She remembered seeing it once on a trail ride and thought it looked like the perfect home, the one she had always wanted. It was a shelter for abused women or something like that.

For a while she just sat outside on the curb staring up at the full moon and the sky full of stars. Eventually the porch light turned on and a woman appeared at the door.

“Hi sweetheart, what are you doing out here by yourself? Do you want to come in?”

Sarah began to cry. Nobody had called her sweetheart before, not even her own mother or father. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and picked up her backpack.

The inside of the house smelled sort of like vanilla and cinnamon. It was warm and cozy, the way a house should feel. There were no random scattered bottles, ashtrays full of dirty cigarettes, or mounds of laundry littering the hallways. The lamps were subtle, casting a warm glow on the caramel furniture she sat on.

The woman had dark curly shoulder length hair, bright blue eyes and a warm smile. She was dressed in yoga gear and looked pretty and approachable.

“I’m Grace” she said

“I’m Sarah”

“Do you want to stay here for a while?” she asked

“Yes please” said Sarah “I would appreciate that.”

“Okay. Well, we don’t need to talk tonight, we can do that tomorrow after breakfast. We usually go for a hike in the mornings too. Just sort of a little tradition around here. Why don’t I take you up and show you your room”.

Sarah nodded and followed Grace up the stairs to a large hallway with several rooms. The 3rd door on the Right was open. They walked in to a room with a 4 poster bed, a desk, bookshelf and separate bathroom. It was beautiful and perfect. It felt peaceful, like the kind of place you could go to escape when you wanted to.

“This okay”? Grace asked

“Yeah” said Sarah with a smile.

“Okay, good. Well, I am beat. I’m gonna head off to bed. If you’re hungry help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen. There’s a computer in the living room, and a TV in the den. I’ll see you in the morning Sarah. I’m glad you’re here.”

Sarah got into her PJ’s and laid in bed clutching her weathered old teddy bear Parson, while she stared out the window at the stars. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but she knew it was at least better than yesterday.

Hands Don’t Lie

I was working the psychic fair at the National Convention Centre. It always drew an interesting crowd. The usuals… you know, the skeptics, the fanatics, the wanna be’s, the scammers, the believers, the gypsies & of course the stoned hippies.

A young woman came into my booth with her fiancé wearing a smile so grande it killed me to read her palm. I sensed impending doom before she even said hello.

She walked into my booth with a huge nervous smile and said, “Are you Zelda? Can we do this now?”

She shot a wink at her soon-to-be hubby as he glared at her disapprovingly, obviously falling into the skeptics group. She was the girl next door, a former cheerleader, a zoom white smile, and a bronze glow. Came from the All-American family. Two kids, a dog and parents who stayed together.

She held out her perfectly manicured hand. She believed in fate this one, she was Cinderella looking for her happy ending. She wasn’t gonna get it. I swallowed hard wondering if I should lie or just tell her what I saw. It was written all over her aura I didn’t even need to see her hand.

I went through all the basics with her… the success factor, the life line, the head line, all of the things that people who know nothing about palmistry want to hear.

Then she asked me about her marriage…

“So, can you like see our marriage?” she beamed as she smiled at her fiancé who was looking on.

I hesitated and cleared my throat “Uhhh yeah. This is your marriage line here”

“That? That tiny line? Why is it so small, is that normal?”

I grabbed my glass of ice water and chugged it. This part was never easy. It’s one thing to not volunteer to ruin somebody’s life, it’s another to willingly hold back or lie when they ask.

“Well, the length of the line usually indicates the length of the marriage”

Her smile faded to a worried look of devastation.

“So… does that mean that me and Ted are going to divorce?”

“Well… not necessarily but it does indicate a split.”

“Oh GOD… This is HORRIBLE! I wish I never came here.”

“I know, I am sorry. I just want to be honest with you.”

“No, no I guess it is better that I know. Does it at least say why we split”?

I sighed once again, not wanting to expand on her life of horror any further but being put in the uncomfortable position of having to.

“I can see several affairs, but it isn’t certain whether they are in your marriage or that of another. All I know for sure is that it has a profound affect on your life and marriage.”

She started sobbing intensely. I offered her a tissue. Thankfully Ted was out of sight.

With her mascara running down her face and her nose beginning to run, she looked at me hopelessly and said “What should I do Zelda?”

I looked to my right, then to my left, leaned in and said “Fuck it sister… marry the man. This line here indicates a huge amount of alimony. So you’ll be okay honey.”

She smiled through her tears, paid me, and walked out of my booth. As I watched her and her fiancé walk down the aisle, she began hitting him with her purse until they were out of sight. I felt good not telling her about the cancer she was going to get.

I never did do another convention show after that…

Global Warming

I had just watched a freaky documentary about the ice caps melting, a beetle that wasn’t dying and was killing all the trees, and some strange animal I’ve never seen before who’s extinction could threaten the food chain.

For some reason, this documentary made me want to do something. But as usual, my intentions were good, but my methods a little suspect. Spray painting all of the SUV’s in my neighbourhood with “Gas Pig” in retrospect wasn’t a particularly novel idea, but it was a revolutionary idea at the time. And it didn’t stop there. I continued on to stuff banana’s in tail pipes so that people would be forced to take public transportation (or… that was the thought anyway). Then, I snuck onto the premises of my local hydro company and spray painted “we’re watching you” on the employee entrance door.

I’m pretty sure it was that, that alerted the cops to my environmental mischief… all the while letting out countless CFCs into the air with the many aerosol cans I used. In some cases I used 2 or 3 colours to get my message across. I snuck out of the premises pretty stealthily and hopped on my bike, so I was gone in a flash. And a girl wearing a pink sweater with two braids being held together by fun fir isn’t a likely suspect.

The next day I decided to skip work and make some pretty posters. I got drunk on Southern Comfort and pulled out some paint, glitter and fabric and made pretty green “Stop Global Warming” posters that looked nice enough to hang in my living room. I was feeling very proud of these posters and wanted to do something with them… I didn’t want to waste them, so I decided to do some research on the internet to find somewhere that would treat my posters nicely.

I passed out drunk with all of the lights on, the air conditioning cranked and my TV on all night. I woke up and realized that this Global Warming thing was making me a little nutty. This would be my 2nd day of not showing up for work, and my 2nd day of not giving a reason or bothering to call. Perhaps I would be saving the environment in the long run, by being fired and not having to drive to work anymore.

I rented An Inconvenient Truth and furthered my obsession with the topic and continued to drink my Southern Comfort. It was probably when I was sitting in the dark with my TV running on a generator and my phone ringing, that I realized how I looked. I began laughing out loud and saying to myself “as if I could stop global warming”. I knew I wasn’t going to stop anything truth be told, but I was hoping to create some kind of stir with somebody somewhere.

Sadly, all I did was increase security at the Hydro company, get labeled as The SUV Saboteur, damage my liver and create some new art for my living room walls. I did make some changes at home too, but it wasn’t me who was the problem, it was everybody else… and if everybody else had the problem, then what could I do?!

I got fired… but not before smashing a few lightbulbs on my way out and spray painting “use energy efficient bulbs you wankers” on the wall in the company cafeteria.

I Want My Toasted Croissant!

Before I could start the day, I had to get coffee… and something to eat, since I knew I would likely be working through lunch. I went to Tim Horton’s to grab a coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I ordered my usual; egg & cheese on a toasted croissant, only to be met with an unrelenting policy maker donut baker who had a chip on her shoulder.

“We don’t toast croissants anymore”

“Oh really? Because that’s what I usually get…”

“Yeah well they burn and they’re a fire hazard in our toaster”

“Oh… that’s strange. I’ve never had a burnt toasted croissant either.”

“Would you like to pick something else?” she says with an attitude and an eyebrow raised.

I want to pull that fucking hair net over her ugly face and start beating her over the head with my TokiDoki purse. But I don’t…

(bitch)

“Just give me whatever is easiest for you to toast. And I’ll have that. Don’t wanna stress you out here, just want breakfast.”

I left the store slightly annoyed that the one Tim Horton’s I never go to, outright refused to give me what I always order at other locations.

The day prior, I had seen a dead puppy on an on ramp to the highway. There’s nothing worse than seeing a dead puppy I tell you. I shook my head as I remembered the poor pup on the road. Then… just as I was rounding the corner to my street, I notice something dead on the road… only it’s not a squirrel, a coon, or a bird… it’s a fucking kitten!! How likely is it to see a dead puppy and then a dead kitten the day after?! My heart ached for puppies and kittens.

When I got in the door my phone was ringing like a bastard, so I answered it.

I knew it wasn’t gonna go well as soon as I heard the asshole on the other end who obviously had something lodged up his sphincter.

“Is this Ms. Eckersall?”

“Uhhh yah.”

“Ms. Eckersall, are you aware that you have an outstanding 407 ETR bill?”

“Oh do I? Yeah no… not exactly a top of mind thing I guess. How much do I owe?”

“Well m’aam, it’s been handed over to us now and if you can pay it today, I will cut you a deal for $320. I strongly suggest that you do this before you ruin your credit permanently.”

“$320??? Are you on crack? I didn’t do $320 worth of driving on that fucking highway!!”

“Well m’aam, it has been over a year and interest has been accruing. So shall we make arrangements to take care of this today?”

“No thanks. Not today.”

“And why is that?”

“None of your goddamn business”

“No need to get snippy with me Ms. Eckersall, I’m just trying to help you here. Trying to save you from a bad credit report.”

“Ohhhh you’re trying to help me are you? How fucking naive do you think I am? How about this… You go lodge a dick up your ass and calm down, and I’ll pay when I feel like it.”

I hung up.

Fuck… When it rains it pours. Customer service shit show, dead puppies and kittens, a collection agent with a God complex… What else?!

I walked down to my mailbox chowing down on my shitty breakfast sandwich, still wondering why the bitch couldn’t have just thrown a croissant in the toaster and given me what I wanted.

I grabbed the stack of mail and noticed the self-addressed stamped envelope with my address on it, which I had sent to a publisher only a week and a half prior. I knew it was a rejection letter.

When I got home I taped it to my rejection board… a little board I had created to save all of my rejection letters. The chick that wrote Harry Potter had 21 rejections and was turned down by some pretty stupid publishers. That’s what keeps me going.

At least I had my coffee.

I opened the lid and began sipping my coffee. Something tasted off… It didn’t taste right. I felt my blood begin to boil… Uh oh… A total loss of control was imminent.

Angrily, I stormed off to my car, coffee in hand and drove back to the Tim Horton’s.

I flung the door open and the bitch looked at me as if to say “Oh… You again.”

“Can I help you?” she asked with the same bitchy look

“Well, I don’t know… It might stress you out too much or go against your policy. But maybe you can try, how about that. My breakfast sandwich was shit by the way… And you seem to be the only Tim Horton’s in town with this ridiculous fire hazard rule of yours because no one else has a problem with a fucking toasted croissant. And why does my coffee taste like puke? I’ll tell you why… Because the cream is fucking off and it’s floating on top.”

I slammed it down on the counter knowing what a relentless bitch I was being.

She lightened her look and her tone this time “Would you like another coffee m’aam?”

“NO… I WOULD LIKE A FUCKING TOASTED CROISSANT, AND IF YOU’RE WORRIED ABOUT A FIRE I WILL STAND THERE WHILE YOU TOAST IT WITH A GOD DAMN FIRE EXTINGUISHER!”

Another associate was standing behind her by this time and glaring at me as if I was the one with the problem, which in fact… I was.

They whispered something, and she reached for a croissant and popped it in the toaster, giving me the look of death. But I got what I wanted, even though I ended up feeding it to the pigeons.

48 Ways To Say NO

I have a headache

She doesn’t live here

I’m actually a Pastafarian

It isn’t something I really dig

I might spontaneously burst into flames

My “God” wouldn’t be cool with that

Satan would not be happy

I’m shipping out of here on a cargo rig

What would your mother say?

I’m too busy doing my self-breast examination

I just got crop dusted and have to flee

Needles are too scary

I’m too high

I’m busy balling socks

Two words: licking batteries

Already crazy enough thanks

Go touch a melon, you’ll get the idea

I can have my ass talk to you if you’d like

Naw dawg

Lets table that for the time being

Why don’t we White board it

Fuck off

I hate you

Lets circle back to that

Come again?

Maybe when K Cars are cool

Can it be turned into a show tune?

Slather some anal lube on and we’ll talk

You must be talking to one of my other personalities

I don’t do anything that isn’t virtual

Go die over there

I’d rather give your old rancid dog a blow job

I’m filming an infomercial right now

Will you wear this?

I have camel toe right now

My fly eyes are indicating a “no”

Shall we discuss over a game of dungeons & dragons?

I’ll inject, you talk

I am feeling a bit gassy right now

I am actually inventing a new colour at the moment

I’m a demonic bunny

I’m reading a really good grocery flyer

Just waiting for Keith Richards to overdose

Probably not

I’m not really talkative

I actually don’t like other humans

Fuck You

Goodbye

* Don’t be a fucking people pleaser

Behind the Wreck

His parents were sort of like trashy rejects. Their idea of a nice night out was an evening at Denny’s having breakfast for dinner. His mom Jeannie had a sweater for every occasion, and someone clearly forgot to inform her about the recent advances in optometry, because her lenses were as thick as hockey pucks. I remember holding in my laughter while talking to her because her eyes looked like they belonged in a carnival fun house mirror.

And Jeffy… Poor Jeffy. Cursed from birth. Folks couldn’t just call him Jeff or Jefferson, or even Mike for that matter. No… it was Jeffy.

I started taking him under my wing around 4^th grade when he showed up to school wearing Orange tab Levi’s and his dad’s trucker jacket, 100 sizes too large for him. It wasn’t even the dreadful attire that made me feel bad for him, it was his total lack of social hierarchy prowess. For example, you don’t pick your wart and squirt blood at the most popular girl in school (Suzy) and expect that it will somehow win her over.

I approached him on my recess.

“Jeffy right?”

“Huh?”

“You live on my street, I saw you move in. Your dad’s a trucker.”

His voice was sort of nasally, as if he was getting over a very bad cold, but he wasn’t. “Yep, he drives an 18-wheeler with chromies, sometimes he lets me go around to the other trucks in the shipping yard steeling them.”

He invited me over to check out his father (Larry)’s truck, so I obliged and checked out the big rig sleeper. Even got to blow the horn.

His dad had a huge belly, probably one of the biggest in existence. I pictured him eating babies for lunch and dogs and children for dinner. I was relieved when I actually had dinner there and saw that they all ate macaroni with cut up wiener pieces, just like us… Only it wasn’t just the kids. The whole family ate that.

Jeffy actually survived middle school, with a lot of help from me. By the time 6^th grade came though, I could no longer help him with his clothes or his cool factor. He wasn’t interested. He started stealing liquor from his dad, who was usually too drunk to notice and even began his acid career. There were a few other unusually young burnouts who joined in, but most of us wanted to wait a year or two before completely losing our innocence.

I remember finding Jeffy passed out behind the rec center one day. I went to have a smoke I had bummed and he was passed out in that fake snow that comes out behind the arena.

“Jeffy? Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer

“Jeffy, what the fuck are you doing here you’re gonna get ammonia or something.”

He still didn’t answer.

I walked right over to him so I was staring down at him. His eyes were closed, but he was still breathing, so I knew he couldn’t be that bad. I kicked him with my steel toed Docs. He sort of groaned in quasi-agony but didn’t open his eyes.

It was the day before Halloween. I remember the smell in the air, it was crisp and clean and exciting. I still wanted to go out Trick or Treating, but had to act as if it wasn’t all that cool anymore.

Just after I butted out m smoke, out of the corner of my eye I saw an Orange & Black atrocity marching towards me. The helmet like shape of her tacky perm and the horrible fit of her Black stirrup pants told me all I needed to know… It was Jeffy’s mom.

I began kicking him aggressively “dude – your mom is coming. Get up.”

Jeffy was making noises, but not responding in the way that I had hoped.

Jeannie was getting closer. I could hear the high pitched screetch of her annoying East coast accent as she shouted “JEFFY , YOU BETTER DAMN WELL HAVE SOME KIND OF EXPLANATION FOR THIS!”

Upon seeing him on the ground, her first reaction wasn’t concern, but anger. She ran over and started shaking him violently, her twitchy White skin becoming irritated and Red and her carnival funhouse eyes bulging out of their hockey puck lenses.

I stood and watched for a minute but quickly turned in the other direction. I saw her pull him to his feet by his ears. I heard him groaning something awful.

She managed to get him into the back seat of her Powder Blue K Car. That Jeannie, she was small but mighty. I sometimes thought her helmet perm gave he super hero energy when it came to magnifying her voice, strength… and eyeballs.

I remember going home from school that night, waiting to hear what happened. Even though Jeffy and I weren’t as close any more, he would always give me the scoop when I wanted it.

I kept waiting for the K Car to pull in, but it never did. But cop cars did. And eventually, the next day, the K Car was there too. I went to knock on the door, to ask for Jeffy. Jeannie came to the door, her curls falling, her glasses off. She looked a mess. Her eyes weren’t even bulging anymore. She wasn’t animated or amusing. I knew something was wrong.

All Jeannie could say to me was “I’m sorry, Jeffy’s dead” and she slammed the door in my face.

Just Once

She doesn’t really “look” homeless. She keeps to herself and washes up in the airport or nearby restaurants, making sure her face is always clean, even if it’s been months since she’s showered. She always carries a back pack and fits in quite well with the travelers by looking like one of them.

Only… unlike them, she has nowhere to go.

At the age of 16 Sophie dropped out of high school to pursue a modeling career in the city. She moved from her small town and into the city with her then boyfriend, Mark who was ten years her senior. He was a pretty well known pot dealer and vowed to clean up his act and help Sophie with her modeling career instead.

They truly were in love, despite what Sophie’s family believed. They would have been happy living in a cardboard box in the alley in a storm, as long as they were together. Mark, bought a Pentax K1000 from a pawn shop and started taking photos of Sophie for her portfolio. They would hitchhike out to the country and take pictures at old abandoned farms, or stay in the city and take pictures in grungy alley ways. Mark liked to call those ones “beautiful decay”.

Having been sober for 3 months, things were starting to look up. Mark was motivated and even had a job working nights in a factory to pay for their small one bedroom bachelor apartment. Sophie worked part time serving coffee at an independent cafe in a trendy neighborhood. They weren’t rolling in money, but they were getting by, and working towards something.

One day Mark brought a friend home from work. Sophie was just waking up and they were loud and obnoxious. She thought maybe they were drunk or something, but upon closer inspection… she knew, they were high just by looking at them.

“What are you doing Mark? Are you on something?”

“Oh hey baby, this is my friend Daz. We work together. Babe… you gotta try this shit, just this once okay. Stuff like this doesn’t come along very often. Just once… For me.”

She stared at him with dagger eyes. She hated being put on the spot, and had major issues with saying no. She stared down and then back up at her boyfriend, who she loved and trusted.

With a softer less-aggressive voice she asked “what is it?”

“Promise not to freak… okay. Promise?”

“Oh god, you’re worrying me here.”

Daz started snickering as Mark grinned ear to ear, “It’s heroin”

Sophie turned White. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her own boyfriend, who had only previously been a pot dealer had now jumped several rungs on the drug ladder and advanced to heroin.

“Did you inject it she asked?”

“Yeah” Mark said. “I know crazy right?!”

Sophie sat down on the velour couch in their living room and said “Okay, well if you tried it, then I will too. But just this once. This stuff is apparently very addictive.”

The two guys sat on either side of her helping her with the rubber tourniquet. Daz held her hand tightly and said “We’re giving you your wings Sophie. Just wait until you get up there. You’re going to love it.”

Sophie’s heart started beating loudly and rapidly. The most she had ever done in the way of chemicals was some shitty blotter acid. She was never really a fan of Mark’s dope when he dealt it because she said it made her “too paranoid and hungry”. Not good for her career.

Daz told Sophie to look away as he injected into a strong vein in her Right arm. Mark held her and stroked her hair as she breathed in deeply and sank back into the brown velour of the couch. The voices became muffled and the room became a different place, her heart felt full, her eyes amazed, and her body fluid and permissive.

Mark’s hand stroking her hair felt like the most wonderful thing she had ever felt. Despite feeling a bit nauseous, she was in heaven. It was the most orgasmic beautiful thing she had ever done. She felt the way everyone should feel… at least once.

But it wasn’t just once.

Mark and Sophie began shooting up every weekend, then several times a week, then every day. Their rent was overdue. The high wasn’t the same, and their relationship had suffered. Both of them became extremely jealous if one scored or somehow got high without the other. They started the downward spiral, their health, their life, themselves. It wasn’t long before they were both out of work, and out of a home.

They pawned everything they had worked to buy, including the K1000. It had been months since Mark took any pictures, and Sophie’s skin was breaking out in sores. When Sophie wasn’t picking at her sores obsessively, she was biting her nails (usually worrying about how to score) and sometimes they bled badly and would make her fingers raw.

For a while they couch surfed, staying in various places. That was fine, since they were almost always fellow junkies and all anyone wanted was a safe haven to get high.

One day Sophie returned from a street trek, begging for money down by the subway. She walked in to find the group standing around Mark shaking him violently. One of the guys looked over at Sophie and said “He did too much, we just got back and found him like this. I think he’s gone.”

Sophie collapsed on the floor upon hearing this and was helped up by one of the squatter chicks, Kim, who helped her fix up to ease the tragedy of Mark’s death. The guys were still arguing about what to do with his body and where to put him, when Sophie just wandered out of the room, high and looking for a way out.

That was 17 years ago.

Sola

Her mother named her Sola because she said the day she was born the sun shone so brightly into her hospital room it was impossible to ignore.

Sola was the kind of girl who you just couldn’t ignore. Her look was magnetic. She seemed to have it all. Beautiful flowing dark hair, crystal Blue eyes, a smile that could radiate through a thousand miles of nothingness and turn it into, something.

And a soul, that was so beautiful, everybody fell in love with her.

She was a difficult girl to love though. A free and beautiful spirit, who’s parents influenced her to explore, travel, experience, and live. Any man who was brave enough to be with her always ended up hurt in the end. Because Sola couldn’t stay in one place very long. She had to get out there into the world and experience it all. Teaching English in Vietnam, rebuilding a small village in Gana, or working with UNICEF in Central Africa. She wanted to change the world, as her Papa would say.

While working in Bolivia, she received a devastating call from her mother telling her that her father had fallen ill and was in the hospital. He had stomach cancer.

He had been having problems breathing and went to the doctor. They diagnosed him with stomach cancer and told him that it had spread into his throat. It was inoperable. All they could do was help to make it more comfortable, while he waited to die.

Sola was torn to pieces and flew home immediately to be with her father, feeling guilty for not having been there to notice the signs. She was such an advocate for health, she’d always be the one pushing him (and her mother) to go to the doctor whenever they fell ill, no matter how small or insignificant it may have seemed.

The weight of this guilt was incredible for Sola, almost too much to bear. She closed her eyes as tears fell down her cheeks. Images of her and her father played in her mind like an old movie reel.

Her first bike ride without training wheels; her father watching proudly as he pushed her off and watched her ride all by herself.

Their fishing trips together. Papa showing her how to release the hook without hurting the fish so they could throw them back.

The look on his face the day she graduated University.

The day she announced that she wanted to spend her life being a Global philanthropist, helping those who don’t have the means to help themselves.

He looked at her, the way nobody else did. She was the apple of his eye and perpetually made him smile, and cry, and stare at her in amazement.

The thing that he perhaps didn’t know, is that he was her biggest influence. It was his warm heart and generous soul that shaped her inspiration. Always pointing out global issues in the paper, telling her to research things for herself, and making sure she questioned mainstream media.

When she arrived at the airport, she looked at her nails. They were sore and red. She had been biting her nails the entire way.

Her mother met her at the gate and they embraced, crying into each other’s shoulders. Sola saying “I’m sorry mama, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

They went for lunch and got caught up before heading to the hospital. Her mother had prepared her for the condition she was about to see her father in. He was thin, pale, and had a GI tube for feeding. He would never know the taste of a fine steak again. He would never be able to sit and have coffee or go for ice cream.

Sola stood outside of her father’s room before entering. The movie reel she had watched earlier on the plane, flashed before her again, only quicker this time.

She slowly walked into his room towards him. He looked so helpless and sick. Tears fell down onto his hospital gown as she whispered “Papa” into his ear.

Before opening his eyes a small smile appeared on his dehydrated lips. He stared at her with his beautiful Blue watering eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

“I miss you” he said. His voice was raspy and sore. Talking was difficult for him.

“I’m so sorry papa. I haven’t been here. I should have been here.”

“No Sola. You were where you were meant to be. Changing the world.”

“I don’t want you to go Papa. I don’t know what I would do.”

“We all have to go sometime Sola. We just have to be thankful for the time we have.”

She rested her head on his arm as she sobbed, thinking about the inevitable and how she would manage without him.

That night both Sola and her mother slept beside him in the hospital room. When they woke up, the sun was shining brightly into the room. He opened his eyes and smiled at his wife, motioning to the sun, and then to their daughter.

“I love you” he said to his wife

“And I am so proud of you Sola, you are my world.”

He looked towards the window smiling as the sun warmed his face and his daughter and wife clasped his hands tightly.

“I have to go now” he said. He closed his eyes.

And that was it.

That was his last breath.

Sola and her mother wept on his lifeless body until nurses rushed in upon hearing the heart rate monitor.

Sola didn’t travel again.

She got an office job and stayed with her mother to help with bills, housework, and to keep her company. It was difficult to feel happy some days, but they had to try.

Each day they would visit the grave site and talk to him. Tell him how their day was; tell him how much they missed him.

Daily visits, turned to weekly visits, then to monthly visits. They had do this in order to move on with life.

One day Sola went alone. Without her mother. She needed answers.

She stared up at the sky and shouted “God, if you are up there, why did you take my Papa from me? What kind of a God would do such a thing?”

“You fucking asshole”

“I needed him.” she said as she stared down mournfully at his grave crying.
She fell to her knees and touched his tombstone.

As she did that, she felt the warm touch of the sun on her head. She looked up to the sky and noticed the clouds had parted and the radiant glow of the sun was producing the most beautiful beams of light, engulfing her entire body in warmth.

She looked up and smiled. “I miss you Papa.”

To Each Their Own

I know I have a shopping problem because I still have clothes with tags on them. Usually I shop when I need to feel good. If I’ve had a shitty week or something is really getting to me, I head to Winners.

When I get through the doors, I know that I’m gonna be in there for a while, so I get a cart. I watch the “normal” shoppers with three or four items in my cart and I wonder how they can do that.

I start in the sweater racks, usually I select 5-6 sweaters and chuck them in my cart, then I do the same with pants, skirts, casual wear and blouses. The item Nazi in the  fitting area usually looks at my cart as if to say “You better not bring any more than six items in here at a time bitch”.

Fortunately (for her) she doesn’t say this out loud, and I already know the rule.

Every time I shop, I perpetually torture myself. I buy the size that I’m not, but wish I was… And am disappointed when it doesn’t fit. It’s a sick little game I play with myself and gets me really pissed off.

Until… I find that one black swan. That one pair of pants that shouldn’t fit, but does. And until that happens, I’m not happy.

Binging on shopping, is a bit like gambling. You know that your money should stay in the bank, that there are far better uses for it than 6 tops, a jacket, and a pair of jeans. But you feel temporary elated while you’re shopping, which is why it works. The guilt doesn’t really set in until you get home and log on to internet banking and discover how much your little shopping binge set you back.

I guess I’m kind of tired of the shopping addiction now. I need something better and more exciting. I’ve done the drugs & alcohol, tattoos (still a current) and the shopping… I need a healthier addiction. Something that I can obsess over and do way more than I should, but that won’t cause me health problems or financial stress.

Because let’s face it… We’re all addicted to something.

Comfortably Numb

Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me. Like how I can wear the same wife beater for 4 days straight, not shower, avoid all mirrors, and eat an entire row of chocolate chip cookies in 3 minutes.

They say it’s called depression. I say it’s called “I just don’t give a fuck”.

I thought it would be the happiest day of my life, getting my book in the mail to a handful of carefully selected publishers. Thought it would fill me with hope, rejuvenation, life, and optimism.

It didn’t.

It made me go home, lie down on my couch and lose 3 hours of my life, because I didn’t want to talk to anyone, deal with anything, or get anything done.

I woke up groggy and still grumpy thinking about how disgusting I had let the house become. I didn’t feel the need to do anything about it. Instead I just sat there staring at a wall, until the phone rang.

It was my mom.

“Congratulations. I heard you got your book out.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Well aren’t you happy about it?”

“No… not really… Listen I don’t really want to talk about it okay.”
(Silence)

“So, what else has been going on”

“Same shit different day.”

(Obviously upset) “Well okay, if you don’t want to talk, I’ll let you go and you can call me when you’re feeling a little more sociable.”

“Fine”

“Bye then”

(Click)

I resumed my position on my couch staring at the wall with the same blank expression I had been wearing since I returned from the post office. Like a bank robber wearing one of those plain white expressionless face masks while they instruct a teller to hand over the cash or have a bullet in their head.

An annoying dog started barking outside for no apparent reason. Instead of turning on the TV, the radio, or putting on my furry earmuffs. I got up. I opened the door and shouted, “Tell your fucking dog to shut his yapper before I come over there with a poisonous steak.”

I wasn’t just uninterested, I was angry. I wanted to kick the shit out of someone. For so long I had been the aspiring author, the unpublished writer with 2 books, and the starving artist if you will. The thought of no longer carrying that title was terrifying. What would I be? Who would I become?

I went to the toilet to purge the row of cookies I had eaten, and then sat on the bathroom floor.

Its funny how you can convince yourself you want something so badly, but then when the prospect of getting it becomes a reality, it suddenly feels different.

The bathroom floor was cold. I leaned against the wall and stared into the bathtub where my daughters little toys were lined up in the corner waiting for their next bath. Beside them, a faded tile that had been coloured on and presented to me as a masterpiece, which I never could erase.

I smiled. And that’s all it took.