Cat Tum
When Mabel isn't killing things, she can be found relaxing in her favourite sunbeam. Cute. Fuzzy. A little smile pulling at her lips. Probably dreaming of dismembering something.
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100 Days — Writing.
A piece of writing a day for one hundred days — small, finished things, shipped before they get precious. Showing up at the desk on a schedule and letting momentum do what waiting for the muse never has. Some will sing. Some hum. All will ship.
10 pieces · newest first
Big Onion®
Jalapeños from Mexico, tomatoes from Alberta, beef from Alberta, tortillas from Canada. Everything I needed with one exception: every onion on the shelf that day was grown in the USA.
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The Smoker
I started smoking. Worse, I convinced my eldest son to start too. Not coffin nails: matching pellet smokers, because briquettes stopped fitting my backyard milieu and I wanted something with soul.
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Crime Scene
Charlie and Mabel were left for dead in a snowbank two years ago. We took them in and gave them a job: watch the shop, report anything unusual. Today, no girls. Just an open window and a light rain.
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The Penalty
Four little boys, one hot Friday, and a gas station counter full of candy. Their bikes were lined up outside like getaway vehicles. Some things haven't changed in forty-plus years.
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Behind Aligned
100 Days of Writing and Doodling started strong, then went off a cliff like Thelma and Louise. This is not a new problem. I drive off the cliff, land it — albeit in pieces — reassemble, stop for an espresso, and carry on.
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Hair Today
It happens with no rhythm, no rhyme. One hair, one inch, in a place it didn't exist yesterday. Not a thatch. Just one. Eyebrow, then shoulder, and today, gloriously, my neck.
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Wormwood & Underwood
I am old enough to know how to change the ribbon on a manual typewriter. One that smells of wormwood and sugar cubes, scarred with cigarette burns. Would I write on one today? Maybe for a page.
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Found Treasures
There at my feet, across from Sidney's best fish and chips, lay a beautiful if inexpensive piece of jewellery. I looked around for someone clutching their neck. Not a soul.
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Happy Birthday
I plan on being kind to myself as I cobble this together. Inspiration? I'll paw through the pictures on my phone, find one that has a story and write something about it. I'm setting a word count of 750 and will give myself a little reward every time I'm within 10 or 20 words of the limit. Little rewards are just that. Maybe I'll have a nap. Or a bubble bath.
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