Short stories

The Woman Downstairs

The woman downstairs heard every noise that wasn't there. Her husband was no longer there to snore and roll in his sleep, so she turned her ears to the small thumps and shallow breaths of the people upstairs. Every sound in the dark resonated like a bomb exploding. She would wake up to listen, and then roll from her bed to write letters, to perhaps hear some sympathy. She would press the send button, thrusting her indignant cries out into the night, to send rude awakenings to the morning recipients who had to do something to stop her letters from waking them, after everything had changed and the noises vanished. Even though there were the same soft thumps and shallow breaths, the daylight provided a sound buffer. A sound wall. Something for her obsessive thoughts and unsound mind to ricochet off.

She kept a notebook by her pillow, ready for the next midnight assault and her onslaught of complaints. Her two-bedroom suite caused too much noise. Silence can be loud. Her letters began to fly around the world - out of her head, fingers and room. Her lonely dementia; a one-dimensional life. And the letters came back, acknowledged. Her thoughts confirmed. There was a sound in the world and she kept everyone awake with it - presidents, council members, plumbers, carpenters, teachers, government servants, and the writers, who wrote more replies and received more letters.

Every complaint reached the door of the people living with their small thumps and soft breaths upstairs who barricaded themselves in layers of carpet, sweaters, and stacked boxes. The quiet people who she dream of in the night, living themselves into a corner of existence who had enough of paper, who protested fiercely. The people who defended their slow breaths and late night thumps on the hard surface - their floor, her ceiling. Noise trickles through the cracks, old pipes bursting, and rotting walls.

How could they not hear each other? How could they live? The woman's empty bed, cold and deprived of her late husband's soft breaths in the night, his footfall on the floor going to run water through the old pipes in the night. Her adversity to the low sounds of breathing, and other people living.

Writing on Week Thirteen

I am working on relieving tension in my life because, as a writer, I find that my emotions often get in the way of reality. There is often a struggle to let go of the ego, that universe in the self that shields us from the conflict of a different reality happening outside the body and, essentially, the mind. As writers, we can use this to our advantage, to create worlds. Still, I tend to stay in that world and lose sight of the daily grind that, at times, gets in the way. Also, my ego will get in the way of the writing process. I find it difficult to follow my own rule to keep writing and let it happen. I have constructed projects in my mind, written on long-term 'to-do lists' that will keep me motivated and creating for a long time; however, this will to sit down and start sometimes goes sideways. I journal before I sit down to work.
I recently had a discussion with my yoga instructor about consciously slowing down and being more aware of the mind's internal and external realities. I tend to internalize everything and not look more closely at what that external influence may actually be, and whether it has much at all to do with me. The world is an overwhelming place - is the trick to accept it all, or try to harness it into some manageable, bite-sized way?
This is not an attempt to sort out the question of reality. We have our own realities and one reality can be complete imagination - in writing, and in life. The question is how to stay firm to my own reality without allowing the realities of others to manipulate my perceptions.
I move deeper into my postures and, when the mind chatter happens, which is a running dialogue, I try to channel it into some creative energy. The mind chatter goes onto the page and off my shoulders.

Writing on Week Twelve

I have returned from attending my first League of Canadia Poets AGM, held in Edmonton, Alberta. I met brilliant poets and had an opportunity to join in and share my work. During the AGM, there were a number of panels presented on writing. I was thrilled to be in a place with other writers, and an organization that supported writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje and Al Purdy, to name a small few. I attended the Form Poetry and Technology and Poetic Collaboration panels. Form poetry is far from being a lost form, but it is having a revival. There was an insightful conversation about the use of the traditional sonnet and liberated sonnet, and the possibility of creating other sonnet forms. I have been working only in free verse for so long, I was partly intimidated to try form. As a result of the panel, I was inspired to write a sonnet today - the first of many.
The second panel addressed the use of today's technology for poets collaborating with other artists i.e. websites, blogs, poetry CDs, music lyrics, photography, video poems. There are so many possibilities at the click of a button.
The league organized a new members reading at a restaurant called The Kasbah in downtown Edmonton, and it was a wonderful evening with words and wine flowing. On the last evening, we were treated to a stirring lecture from Mark Abley, more wine and words flowing, and an awards presentation for the Pat Lowther and Gerald Lampert book awards at the Edmonton City Hall.
Our own wayword poet, Yvonne Blomer, was short-listed for the Gerald Lampert award for her first book of poetry, a broken leaf, fallen mirror. She gave a thoughtful reading and left a firm mark as an up-and-coming poet and new member of the league. Steven Price won the award for his first collection of poems about Harry Houdini, An Anatomy of Keys. Gary Hyland, a poet from Moosejaw, Sasksatchewan, was presented with a well-deserved Lifetime Honourary membership of the League.
The weekend was a great introduction to the League of Canadian Poets - to be present and involved - and brush shoulders with wonderful writers in all career stages. To spend a weekend away talking about the sound, placement and magic of words, what could be better?

Morning Couplets

I awoke on his side of my bed, tangled in the comforter;
his body pillow stowed away on the floor, instead the empty space kept me warm.

Remnants of yesterday fall like dry, dead skin in the carpet,
the smell of dust particles in sunlight, receding shadows called back to the dull stars.

A bloated tea bag, cherry blossoms dangling from branches,
plump raisins suspended in milk – the patience of mornings and seasons.

Sunlit branches sway in a cold wind, birds serenade
spring in this winter month.

The waking world is blurry; I lap up my tea, tasting,
and watch my slowed hand move across the page.

Writing on Week Eleven

How is your writing? Are you managing to send out submissions, enter contests, manage to put a stanza or two on paper? Are you able to harness in your words and make them dance? If so, I am living vicariously through you this week. My flex day is another week away - my day to write - and in the meantime I work at writing morning couplets and keeping track of the days' events. Mostly, I'm trying to stay away from the usual distractions, but it can be a losing battle. Sometimes, the constant notifications of contests and literary events can be overwhelming. We are still struggling with the perameters of space and time. I'm glad these words, alone, are coming.

I find it helpful to discuss writing with a handful of friends I am able to bounce ideas off of, including my supportive Waywords. I have a co-worker with whom I can debate punctuation and discuss writing, in general - our styles, inspiration, influences, energies, authors, articles - whatever is niggling at our writing brains.


For writing incentive, I find the freedom of being wireless helps as I am not confined to my cubby-hole closet with all of its paper and books piled around me. You would think this mound of paper clutter would lend inspiration by osmosis, but it is often mere clutter that clogs the way for new work.

Sleep is overrated and I wish I didn't need it as much as I do. There are too many pages to fill and pore over.

The draft of my first novel should be bound in book form for review by next week, thanks to a friend who has offered to do this for me. I will have 10 copies to give to friends and family for their editing comments.

This week I will be flying to Edmonton to attend the League of Canadian Poets AGM (June 8-10). I am exhilarated by the thought of meeting other writers and sharing ideas.

I realize this entry is greatly dis-jointed - little spurts of thought as I try to start my ignition. Let me know how you are doing and, if you feel comfortable, share your published work or writing intents.