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Short Stories
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My Choice
My Choice was produced in 2014 as part of Sarsvati Theatre’s Wild Women Festival of Monologues, Winnipeg
The day I turned 16 was the day I stopped going to church. “You’ll go to hell for sure,” Mrs. Marmalade said, her orange hair gleaming in the sunlight. Yeah right.
The day I turned 16 I had ‘the talk’ with my Father. “Don’t disappoint your old man, Hel. It’s important to have God in your life.” My father lit his cigarette, inhaled and then coughed up enough sputum to choke a whale. Not that I know if whales can choke, but it sounds good. I said to him...“You told me when I turned sixteen, I could decide. So I’ve decided. I’m not going to church anymore. Here’s a Kleenex Dad.”
The day I turned 16 I dyed my hair pink. My mother was settling in to watch Coronation Street. She didn’t have to go to church because she was brought up Presbyterian, and there wasn’t a Presbyterian Church in town. She looked up to see me sneaking out the door, and then brayed over my father’s continued coughing fit. “O, fer heaven's sake, Heloise, you look like a piece of cotton candy. What the hell will your grandmother think? If you wanna know what I think...” I laughed as I walked out the door. I didn't give a flying !@#X?! what my mother thought.
The day I turned 16 I had ‘the talk’ with my Father. “Don’t disappoint your old man, Hel. It’s important to have God in your life.” My father lit his cigarette, inhaled and then coughed up enough sputum to choke a whale. Not that I know if whales can choke, but it sounds good. I said to him...“You told me when I turned sixteen, I could decide. So I’ve decided. I’m not going to church anymore. Here’s a Kleenex Dad.”
The day I turned 16 I dyed my hair pink. My mother was settling in to watch Coronation Street. She didn’t have to go to church because she was brought up Presbyterian, and there wasn’t a Presbyterian Church in town. She looked up to see me sneaking out the door, and then brayed over my father’s continued coughing fit. “O, fer heaven's sake, Heloise, you look like a piece of cotton candy. What the hell will your grandmother think? If you wanna know what I think...” I laughed as I walked out the door. I didn't give a flying !@#X?! what my mother thought.
My Father's Birth Into Eternity
Creative non-fiction published in Bread ‘n Molasses / 2012
My father left this world with a grace he rarely exhibited when living. Oh, I’m not talking about how it was for him after the stroke, as he lay on a hospital bed for days on end, with all manner of tubes sticking out of his body. That was not graceful. Nor am I talking about the awkward dance that we family members made around him as we clumsily tried to make peace with the fact that he was dying. Lots of good intention there – but no grace.
Grace did come however in the ebb and flow of his last breaths. After the doctor turned the ventilator off. After those that did not want to be present left the room. After a hushed recitation of the Lord’s Prayer and a sweetly sung “Amazing Grace” (it didn’t seem quite appropriate to sing his favourite song “O, how they danced on the night they were wed”).
In the silence that followed, I prayed for courage to say good-bye to the man who was my father; the blue collar worker with the heart of a poet and eyes the colour of the sea, who drank too much and never once saw his true beauty.
Grace did come however in the ebb and flow of his last breaths. After the doctor turned the ventilator off. After those that did not want to be present left the room. After a hushed recitation of the Lord’s Prayer and a sweetly sung “Amazing Grace” (it didn’t seem quite appropriate to sing his favourite song “O, how they danced on the night they were wed”).
In the silence that followed, I prayed for courage to say good-bye to the man who was my father; the blue collar worker with the heart of a poet and eyes the colour of the sea, who drank too much and never once saw his true beauty.
il Vento di Candela
Published in Circa – A Journal of Historical Fiction / 2014
Author’s note: As an artist, I have always been curious about the fine line between creativity and madness. I am also a major reader of well-researched historical fiction. This story brings together these two points of interest.
Gentle Reader,
Our story opens in Venice in 1541 on the steps of the Basilica di San Marco. Paulo, a man once revered as the greatest musician of his day, is raving about the oppression of the people in his beloved republic. Though the character of Paulo is fictional, the corruption of the Doge and the Council of Ten was, sadly, all too real.
"Citizens of our Most Serene Republic!” Paulo announced from the steps of the great Basilica, his voice rising and falling in a melodic cascade. “Listen to the voice of Il Vento di Candela!”
Waving an aged candle high above his head, he continued. “I am Paul, descendant of Saint Paul of Tarsus martyred in Rome. I come to tell you that the age of Il Vento di Candela has come!”
Paulo adjusted his hat – yellow velvet trimmed with ermine, then cleared his throat. His resonant voice began a slow, artful crescendo.
“Our great leader, the Doge, is senile and corrupt. Then, dear citizens, there is the Council of Ten. Who among us does not tremble like a newborn kitten when we see one of those dark knights walking our way? Why friends, would you believe that my words to you might be considered a threat to the Republic? Incredibile! How do we survive these terrible times? Let me tell you!”
His heart burning with long-held fury, he threw his arms skyward and shouted, “We must allow the winds of change to blow through our mortal minds! Listen to the song of Il Vento di Candela! As Moses led the children of Israel out of Egypt, so shall Il Vento di Candela show us the way out of the darkness and into the light. As the candlelight flickers in the gentle breeze, so shall the light in our hearts dance with the Divine!”
Flashing a radiant, toothless smile, Paulo threw his hat high in the air and, catching it, bent forward at the waist in the theatrical bow of a great maestro.
Many of those hurrying by in the early morning crowd knew that Paulo meant no harm. After all, he was once a greatly celebrated musician, named by Father Gianni himself as Il Magnifico. But Venice in the year 1541 was no place for lunatics waving candles in the air and shouting at the top of their lungs about corruption, the Council of Ten, and the heretical notion of dancing with the Divine.
As he pushed open the doors of the Basilica to welcome the early morning worshippers, Father Gianni heard the familiar voice of his old friend and shook his head.
“Madonna mia.” He rubbed his tonsure. “It is going to be a long day.”
Our story opens in Venice in 1541 on the steps of the Basilica di San Marco. Paulo, a man once revered as the greatest musician of his day, is raving about the oppression of the people in his beloved republic. Though the character of Paulo is fictional, the corruption of the Doge and the Council of Ten was, sadly, all too real.
"Citizens of our Most Serene Republic!” Paulo announced from the steps of the great Basilica, his voice rising and falling in a melodic cascade. “Listen to the voice of Il Vento di Candela!”
Waving an aged candle high above his head, he continued. “I am Paul, descendant of Saint Paul of Tarsus martyred in Rome. I come to tell you that the age of Il Vento di Candela has come!”
Paulo adjusted his hat – yellow velvet trimmed with ermine, then cleared his throat. His resonant voice began a slow, artful crescendo.
“Our great leader, the Doge, is senile and corrupt. Then, dear citizens, there is the Council of Ten. Who among us does not tremble like a newborn kitten when we see one of those dark knights walking our way? Why friends, would you believe that my words to you might be considered a threat to the Republic? Incredibile! How do we survive these terrible times? Let me tell you!”
His heart burning with long-held fury, he threw his arms skyward and shouted, “We must allow the winds of change to blow through our mortal minds! Listen to the song of Il Vento di Candela! As Moses led the children of Israel out of Egypt, so shall Il Vento di Candela show us the way out of the darkness and into the light. As the candlelight flickers in the gentle breeze, so shall the light in our hearts dance with the Divine!”
Flashing a radiant, toothless smile, Paulo threw his hat high in the air and, catching it, bent forward at the waist in the theatrical bow of a great maestro.
Many of those hurrying by in the early morning crowd knew that Paulo meant no harm. After all, he was once a greatly celebrated musician, named by Father Gianni himself as Il Magnifico. But Venice in the year 1541 was no place for lunatics waving candles in the air and shouting at the top of their lungs about corruption, the Council of Ten, and the heretical notion of dancing with the Divine.
As he pushed open the doors of the Basilica to welcome the early morning worshippers, Father Gianni heard the familiar voice of his old friend and shook his head.
“Madonna mia.” He rubbed his tonsure. “It is going to be a long day.”
Photo above: Bay © B. Glenn Copeland