C.D. Hoyle
Bio
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.
Stories (24/0)
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.
By C.D. Hoyle2 years ago in Families
La Diablesse
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.
By C.D. Hoyle3 years ago in Fiction
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.
By C.D. Hoyle3 years ago in Confessions
Sublime Moments
I am on a boat absorbing the otherworldliness of a tropical island coastline as I sail by: the sparkle and flash of bright sunlight where water licks sand, the blues of the ocean fade green then create an ombre toward the golden shore. Sea breeze on my sun-warmed skin is a delight and I have a small plastic cup of cold rum, too little soda, and floating slice of fresh lime, in my hand. Life is good and I breathe the sea air deeply, my sinuses feeling swept clean as I do so. One of the operators of The Perpetual Summer cruise appears beside me. A tall guy with great hair: springs of sun-kissed curls erupting from his head.
By C.D. Hoyle3 years ago in Fiction
Green Lights
“When I was a child of eleven or so, I saw a gore spot on the grass over there” I gesture to a lawn at the base of a sixteen-story, brick apartment building. “From a jumper. The body had been removed already but the flies were feasting on this gore patch.” I say, realizing as I say it, that I might have been a bit too graphic.
By C.D. Hoyle3 years ago in Fiction
Greenthumb's Garden
Gardening has always been the nice weather priority for Dorothy Granger. If not out in the back garden toiling in the earth, she is taking a break in the shade with a cold drink, enjoying the aesthetic bounty of what she’s encouraged nature to create. During the long winter months, she reads journals and plans around her three big plots with the beautiful flowers; she turns the comfortable chair to face outwards and watch the snow create white mounds of earth while she pictures what lies beneath. As soon as thawing permits, she is preparing the garden for the upcoming seasons. Since her children left the nest and her husband provides a comfortable income, gardening has been the primary focus of her life. In some circles, she might be considered a kept woman, but she's never liked that term.
By C.D. Hoyle3 years ago in Fiction
Free Cake
“I can’t deal with you sometimes...like, for the rest of today. Do not try to engage me. At. All. - I'm exhausted from being your parent” Alise, age thirty-two, says to her daughter, Jordi, age twelve. They are crossing the parking lot of the supermarket towards their car.
By C.D. Hoyle3 years ago in Fiction
The Re-discoverer
Is there a proper name for what I do? I like to think of myself as a re-discoverer. Everywhere I go has already been inhabited and then abandoned. I retrace the steps of the people who let the property go to seed or grow over while kept in legal limbo. For so long unbound by human will, nature has stepped in to reclaim it. My business card calls me a Property Assessor, but I am a re-discoverer who found their perfect job.
By C.D. Hoyle3 years ago in Fiction
Return of the Diorama
I’ve always been envious of artists. Real artists. Those who excel at a set medium and seem to create form, and blend colour with ease. A crafty person, but not “artistic” in any classic sense, I used to wish I could make something worthy of display. Instead, hot glue guns and sharp paper cutters have always drawn my fancy. I remember making dioramas in grade school. That was my medium. Tiny details coming together to create a scene. The ‘Anne of Green Gables’ farmhouse I made in honour of L.M. Mongomery’s work was complete with tiny, layered shingles on a tiny roof, which dyed my fingertips green for days.
By C.D. Hoyle3 years ago in Humans