C.D. Hoyle is a writer who is also a manual therapist, business owner, mother, co-parent, and partner. You will find her writing sometimes gritty, most times poignant, and almost always a little funny. C.D. Hoyle lives in Toronto.
Big Tracks Guestbook: Cabin #4
Oct 21-23, 2021 Dear Big Tracks, Thank–you for a great stay-cation! Just what we needed – not too far from the city but all the cozy comfort of the countryside. Beautiful leaves on the trees this year. Having the wood for the fireplace delivered to the door was just great! We could not believe all the howling we could hear out in the woods. And leading up to the full moon too! Beautiful, mournful, and made sure we stayed inside at night. Will recommend! Thanks!
Six of Swords
Come close, reader, see this newsstand: It is April 15th, 1912, and yesterday the great ship Titanic met its match when it struck a North Atlantic iceberg. We all know the story, but that is not why we are here. Move past the horrifying headlines of marine tragedy and see now, if you will, that magazine there – yes, The Popular Magazine with its nautical themed cover. Browse the collection and find our friend Thornton Hains, who submitted his story ‘The White Ghost of Disaster’ to the magazine for publishing well over a year ago, only to find it in print mere weeks before the sinking of the Titanic took place. What's that? No Thornton Hains? Check for his pen name; Captain Mayn Clew Garnett. Smart to publish under a nautical name when you're trying to sell sea-based fiction around boatyards, no? Let us imagine the moment the writer gleaned the idea for the story. Were there mystical oracles involved? Was it simply the musing of a writer who, unluckily, foretold of the exact conditions of this tragedy? A combination of the two? Let us explore whether anyone was saved on account of Thornton’s musings – scared away from traveling on the ill-fated ship, perhaps...
High Horse Super Lemon Haze
I’m not a novice cannabis enthusiast, but today is my first time venturing into the local cannabis shop. It has a pun for a name. Retro inspired, pumpkin orange, and harvest gold bands trace the upper wall of the store and remind me of my dad's vinyl collection and of those earthy, clouded, scenes from That 70’s Show.
The Tank Cleaner
It was bright in the corridors of the hospital, but the lonely waiting room was dim. The overhead lights were off to deter loitering. Light from the only window diffused as wafts of snow closed in the perimeters inch by inch. Dim and quiet, all thanks to the snowfall. It carried on falling as Frank Sr. sat, waiting, in this room designed for the purpose, by the fish tank installed to distract worried loved ones. He had found, during his hours of waiting, that the seat to the left of the fish tank provided optimal sightlines to the security door that was behind reception whilst also providing him cover from passersby in the hall. His face, it seemed, lead the charge of his guilt and grief over his son’s accident. It was better, when he had his moments, that he be able to conceal himself.
Journal of an Unsuccessful Surrogate
My lovely friend, Kate, has always encouraged me to share our story and I have finally embraced the challenge. I attempt to do so with the love and respect we have for one another always at the forefront. Ours is just one experience in hundreds of thousands of stories of fertility challenges faced by hopeful intended parents each year, and to any of those IPs, please take any sliver of hope you find here to move forward with your dreams of a family. I firmly believe there is always a reason, known or unknown, as to why things happen, or in this case, do not. Having found out my reason, I’m ready to tell the story.
The overhead light of the passenger door illuminates as the woman pulls it open. Errant strands of long, dark hair fall here and there across her shoulders, loose but secured by a simple black ball-cap. As she ducks into the seat, the brim of the cap shadows her face. She smells like a sunny beach day, with hints of lilac and sea breeze. She is out of place in the middle of the night on this clifftop road, skirting mere inches from a harrowing drop into the foggy sea below.
Healing Journeys and Dick Pics
Today I saw my father’s penis for the first time. His being deceased makes it all the more impressive, I suppose. The weathered, Blacks Photography envelope, containing the photo is labeled ‘Buffalo 1987’, making my dad 38 years old at the time.