An aspiring writer from Alberta, Canada.
A Matter of Great Haste
Lady Edith ran her hands along her skirts, peering at herself critically in the glass of the shop’s window. Her heart was hammering hard beneath her stays; Edith imagined she would be able to see it, should she glance down. Her sister, Eleanor, had assured her that her outfit was perfect for every occasion, an innocent rosy pink with a stylish cut to the jacket and a jaunty hat to match, but Eleanor hadn’t known about this particular occasion. No, this time Edith had struck out entirely on her own. Sighing, she reached into her reticule and retrieved her father’s letter. She had read it so many times that it was nearly committed to memory; still, she re-read the paragraph of interest once again.
To the Avocado
Oh, avocados! You have been in my orbit for most of my life, though my feelings towards you have changed. I remember our first encounter: me, a little girl, peering over the kitchen counter at my mother's lunch time creation. You: spread evenly over a piece of bread, tucked in gently under a soft bed of sprouts. I am not going to lie to you, avocados. Observing your bumpy skin and your green goo-ey inside, I did not share my mother's enthusiastic yum!
Life by Numbers
There are three cracks in the plaster of her bedroom ceiling, each thinner and more twisted than the next. She has three pillows in her bed, which he thinks is odd, and sleeps with two blankets. None of this bothers him. The Bad Numbers don’t exist in the appropriately shabby confines of her dorm room and he counts more out of habit than necessity.
To Dean Winchester, This is an ode to you. This is an ode to the family you founded, speeding onto my TV screen for well over the past decade, engine roaring and classic rock pumping through the speakers. You have been a constant to me, from my early twenties to my mid-thirties. This letter is my thank you.
With a cup in each hand, she steps outside the backdoor into the perfect kind of winter night. The snow is falling, thick and heavy, but the air lacks any real bite. It’s the kind of night for magic, if she wasn’t too tired to contemplate such things. Snowflakes dot the sky like the stars they hide. For a moment, complete peace sweeps over her, glorious and heady. It’s a strange thing: she’s used to stress, used to exhaustion, used to bone weary determination. The thought of jingle bells is a wry one; then the burning ember of a cigarette off to her left distracts her, and the emptiness is almost back.
Of Cars and Fences
His daughter locks her keys in her car. She ponders this for a moment, coat hanger in hand, entirely unsure how to proceed. Who knew cars are so hard to break into? She can see the damn keys in the ignition, like a shining beacon screaming, “Steal me! You work in the worst area in Edmonton!” At least it’s summer; she’s not cold. Biting her lip, she tries to wiggle the coat hanger inside the window. Then she sighs and pulls out her cell phone.
Things That Last Forever
The first time she’s told about death, it means nothing to her. Quite simply, she doesn’t get it. It’s a concept too big to grasp—she’s only eight, and she’s never thought about it before.
Red flag, red flag, red flag. It feels like my heart is beating faster than my thoughts are racing, but that is an impossibility. My thoughts are swirling at the speed of light, around and around and around like a whirlpool determined to pull me under. They wrap themselves around me, a false friend providing comfort, but they are choking me; they are overwhelming me. I have been at war with my thoughts all my life; their victory is an ever-present threat.