Category: About Me

There was an old saying, something along the lines of “working here is like pissing your pants in the dark – you get a warm feeling but no one notices.” That is how I feel about my writing lately, blog included.  In the distant past, I would write something and all the people who subscribed to my blog would get a notification saying there was a new post.  Lately, that hasn’t been happening for some reason.  And to make things worse, I have virtually no audience at home, either.  I have become a sad creature, like a four year old who drew a picture, tugging on shirts and saying “lookit, lookit,” usually to no avail. Since my last post I have written stories for two more contests, and neither of them is very good.  I heard someone say (just last night) that if you do something out of inspiration it is usually a lot better than something done out of necessity or obligation.  With little encouragement or feedback, my latest efforts have been to fulfill obligations to contests, not writing with any flair or imagination.  So that’s what you get: pretty flat results.  Yet in a way it feels like that’s hanging the blame on other people for what I’m unhappy about, when it is almost completely my own fault.

Since the tagline of this blog promises (threatens?) bargain basement literature, I will post the first story.  It’s – OMG – another romantic comedy, which features the same two hopeless dolt lovers, Jeff and Ruby.  I don’t really enjoy writing rom coms, but it keeps on happening.  This one was for NYC Midnight, a 1,000 word limit. Had to be set on a ski lift and contain gasoline or petrol.

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Hanging Around

The skiers made their way to the chairlift and were scooped up, two by two, for the return ride to the top of the run. Jeff stepped into the path of the oncoming seat and was lurched into the air. He settled in for the six minute ride and took in the stunning mountain view. He glanced to his right to see he was accompanied by an athletic woman, a few strands of blonde hair danced around her face in the breeze. It couldn’t be. “Ruby?” he inquired.

“Jeff?  Holy crap! Of all the people to get paired with. How have you been?”

“I’m doing great. What have you been up to the last five years?” He hadn’t seen her since he left for university.

“Just finished my registered massage therapy training. You know, working now, rubbing sore people, that sort of thing.”

The chairlift suddenly stopped with a jerk, and the seat swung in the breeze.  The ground was at least 40 feet down, too far to jump. Jeff could feel panic rising in his chest. Surely they will get it running again very soon, no need for concern.  Ruby smiled at him and shrugged a “now what?” sort of a shrug. She seemed pretty calm, which he focused on for support.

“I sure hope this gets going again soon. I’d hate for all those sore people to go un-rubbed,” Jeff said, trying to sound composed.

“This must happen all the time.  They probably just have to send away to Switzerland for parts.” Ruby remembered Jeff  suffered with anxiety, but she chose to keep things light. “Shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

After a pause he asked “What will happen first: will we starve to death or freeze to death in this wind?”

Ruby was glad Jeff was joking around. “Probably freeze. They can throw us sandwiches and water, but a blanket would never make it this high. And starvation takes weeks. I, for one, am in no immediate danger of starving,” she said, patting her tummy. “You have some saved up fuel too, pizza guy.”

“Of course we could cuddle, which would help prolong our agony.”

“Thanks, Jeff.  Glad to know you considered cuddling with me painful.”

At this height the wind was really blowing. It was fine when the lift was only a few minutes, but as time went by and there was no physical exertion between rides, the cold was becoming an issue.  They pushed together on the chair, but their ski suits were insulated enough that it didn’t make much difference.

“Are you here with a boyfriend?  Someone who may have a problem with us cuddling?”

“No, I’m single. I came here with my sister and her husband. You?”

“Single too. I came home from work one day to an empty apartment. She cleaned the place out without so much as a goodbye.”  He was relieved to know she wasn’t being watched, and the human contact was comforting. “Can you imagine getting stuck up here with someone you wouldn’t cuddle with, like your mother?”

“I’m sure my mother wouldn’t enjoy it either. She was pretty happy when you left town.” The truth was her mother may have thrown Jeff  to his demise by this point. The only thing that may save him in that scenario is the possibility he might survive the fall and live to testify against her.

“I’m pretty cold.  If I was stuck with someone totally repellent, I might need some toes amputated later,” she said, getting back to the question.

Jeff closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. Take deep breaths in, and slowly exhale through the nose. Nothing to worry about.  Ruby is right here, being sensible and warm. Just stay cool. Like Arthur Fonzarelli working the juke box, everything’s under control.  He could feel his heart rate slowing and his mind clearing.

Suddenly Ruby shouted and he snapped back to the present. “Hey! What’s the hold up?” She caught the attention of a ski patrol worker in an orange jacket.

“The power is out. There’s a generator but we don’t have any gas. Someone went to get some, so hopefully we’re going again shortly.” Jeff felt his anxiety rising again. Hopefully? Shortly? He didn’t like the lack of certainty he was hearing, and he also didn’t care for the  acknowledgement that this pause wasn’t ending right away. Gas? What sort of fly by night  operation uses a gas generator? He pictured a huge diesel generator, something with some serious wattage. Jeff was getting riled up, feeling trapped.  If panic fully set in, he would need an escape plan. Would the snow break his fall if he jumped? Could he shimmy along the cable and climb down the next tower?  He needed to get back to the breathing before he did something stupid.

The ski patrol guy continued down the hill, conveying his message to the other skiers hanging in the air. “Well, they’re working on it, I guess,” Ruby said emptily. “How are you doing?”

“Not great. I need to relax, get my pulse back to normal.” He held out his gloved hand and it was shaking visibly. Ruby gathered him in for a hug.  She knew he would be ok, but she wanted to make him believe it.

“It’s ok, do your breathing. I’m sure the ski patrol man is heading into town with his jerry can as we speak.”  In hindsight, that didn’t really strike the confident tone she had hoped for. “Or maybe they can just siphon some gas in the parking lot, really speed things up.”

Jeff laughed. “Hopefully the employee parking lot, starting with the boss’s car.”

They squeezed together and it was warm and familiar.

Then the lift started moving again, with cheers from stranded skiers echoing on the hillside.

“Thanks for keeping me warm, Jeff”

“Thanks for keeping me calm. Any interest in letting me take you to dinner?”

“Sure, if you have any gas in your tank.”

**************************************************************

I’ll wait if you have the urge to brush your teeth or gargle or something to purge bad tastes.  Pop a mint if you have one nearby, and let’s all pray that’s the end of those two characters. The other story I wrote was just a stretched out version of Lieber’s Report.  I had six weeks or so to write any fiction I wanted, but I waited until the deadline was 48 hours away before I started writing, so I just took a story I knew already and stuffed it with Pop Tarts and whole milk until I had it fattened up to 2,000 words from 250. If you want to read it, send a comment and I’ll post it.  Otherwise just read the first Lieber’s Report again, posted in November 2019.

I have another contest to write for in a couple weeks, and maybe two contests if I get through my first round.  And I have to study for a test at work which I take in September.  I know why I have to take the test, but it is hard to study water work stuff after a full day at work.  Last time I read that book I woke up face down on it with my reading glasses askew and drool coming out of my mouth.  Oh well, first world problems, eh?  Enjoy the rest of your summer!

I just had a look at my blog and realized I haven’t posted anything in two months.  I have been super busy, but I have also wasted many, many hours watching the hockey playoffs, so I have no viable excuse. My flimsy excuses begin with going to physiotherapy for my shoulder.  It had healed on its own to the point where I could get a decent sleep, but the therapist got it all riled up again, so now it hurts at night and a fair bit of the time I’m a glassy-eyed insomniac zombie.  Also I have begun to organize our annual chess tournament that will take place in September.  Usually I do this in conjunction with other people, but my partner in crime has begun to have memory issues and is no help at all.  Not that I’m blaming him in any way.  In fact, I feel awful for him and his wife.  I bumped into her a couple weeks ago at the casino.  I was watching hockey and she went walking by.  We talked for a while and she is not having a good time with her hubby who is forgetting everything and – almost – everyone.  Anyway, the organizing takes a lot more time and energy than you might expect.

I was reminiscing the other day about a dinner at a restaurant I had with my parents when I was about 10 years old.  It was at the Clydesdale Inn in Cloverdale, which used to have a fancy restaurant in the front of the building where the cold beer store is now.  If you’re not familiar with this establishment, it doesn’t detract from the story so hold on.  We all got menus, so I asked a typical kid question “What can I order?” and my dad said “Anything you want.”  A medium sized mistake, for sure.  To my parents’ surprise and horror, I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu: Pheasant Under Glass.  When the food arrived, everyone got a dish of pasta or a burger or whatever, but the waiter stopped before me and lifted the glass dome off my pheasant with a waft of steam and a triumphant zing.  My family stared blankly, and no one ever brought it up again.  But what sort of Little Lord Fauntleroy orders pheasant?  And why did they not step in and say something?  Was I extorting them in some way?  It was a genesis moment in the life of a soon-to-be asshole.

My list of complaints with the year 2022 has a new item on it: the spring weather has been awful.  It has been raining and cold for months.  Today it got up to about 17C, which isn’t frigid, but is still below normal.  A month ago we had days which were full on rain and 8C which is more like late January than May.  Crops are rotting in the fields, people’s unmown lawns are going to seed, my legs are not merely white but translucent.  Where’s my summer?  Can I get a refund somewhere?

Another bit of news.  Right after my last post my car got hit by an Uber driver who took off.  Luckily my neighbours saw the whole thing and gave a full description of the guy, his car and his license plate.  Unfortunately, just witnessing the accident wasn’t enough for the insurance corporation who says I have to pay my deductible, as the other driver is denying he did it.  Last week we were having breakfast at about 5:45am when there was a terrible racket outside.  I went and looked out the window and saw a guy had veered off the road and side swiped four parked cars, my wife’s and my daughter’s included.  His little pickup truck was demolished, and so was a little black Subaru parked between my wife and daughter.  My daughter had her car for exactly one month when this happened, and her car has so much damage it may get written off.  Luckily she has replacement insurance!  My wife’s car only got hit by the Subaru which was driven forward in the crash into her back bumper.  Still, that impact damaged the whole rear of her car, no doubt thousands in damages.  Why the lack of focus by the driver?  He dropped his cigarette and leaned over to pick it up.  At least he didn’t take off like my Uber douchebag.  Of course, his truck was totaled and embedded into a Subaru, so escape would have to have been attempted on foot.

In the photo you can just see the front of a red van which got clipped and lost its driver’s side mirror.  Next is my daughter’s brand new Mazda, scraped from end to end.  It got hit hard enough to bend the rims of the tires against the curb.  Next is the Subaru which was a beater anyway, but the sad part is the owner just filled it with premium gas.  Lastly the bright car is my wife’s.  It got pushed forward a couple feet by the Subaru.  It’s a crappy photo, but I failed photojournalism, so what do you want?

Ok, so in my last post I selfishly suggested that 2022 was off to a lousy start due to me hurting my shoulder and a few other minor inconveniences, but I was a fool.  As usual.  My little boo-boos were  nothing compared to the Russian invasion of the Ukraine, so I apologize for being a wimp. Also more significant than what I listed is the inflation rate, $2/litre gas, and the collapse of the Canucks’ playoff chances.  So 2022 continues the recent trend of years that keep on surprising us with their ability to disappoint.

At work I have been re-assigned as a water meter reader.  I love the job, and I can already feel my cardio getting better from walking six hours a day.  What no one talks about, except us readers, is that the hardest part of the job is finding somewhere to pee.  This is a pretty old problem for me as I have a bladder with the capacity of a shot glass.  Once I worked in a planer mill, and I was pretty much stuck grading for two-hour stretches with no hope of a break.  Then I began to have blood sugar problems as I morphed into a diabetic.  The first symptoms, as you probably know, are the thirst and having to pee frequently.  You can never get enough to drink, and it made going without piss breaks unbearable.  To make things worse, the planer mill didn’t have its own plumbing, so anyone needing a leak just went over and peed in the Fraser River from the banks, taking a little cover from a shed with a hydrant in it.  BCIT had a forestry program, and every year they had the students tour our mill.  For some reason, the class was nearly all women.  So there I was, in between breaks, dying for a piss when suddenly I was surrounded by about 20 women taking notes on everything I did.  To my great relief, the planer stopped for some reason, so I dashed outside to donate some used Gatorade to the local fish habitat.  I got to the river bank and was about to unzip when I realized I had a full class of students right behind me, pens in hand, taking notes.  …The grader goes to the river bank when the planer stops…  I think I said “This isn’t part of the tour,” but they kept on gawking.  So much for that!  I had to go back inside and clench and dance until the next coffee break, upset and surrounded by strangers.  In meter reading it rarely gets that bad, but it’s something I have to plan for.

Now I take a once a week injection to keep my blood sugar low, and it seems to work quite well.  Its main side effect is that it makes my stomach sour if I eat too much, or eat or drink certain things my all-knowing medicine decides I don’t like anymore.  Tragically, it often upsets my stomach when I drink beer.  The good news is I lost some weight which also helps the blood sugar stay low, but the bad thing is I am a wimpy beer drinker now.  I have always thought a person’s alcohol habits determine their friends, at least to some degree.  If a person doesn’t drink at all, it’s hard for them to socialize with those who want to piss ‘er up every time they interact.  I used to drink quite a bit.  I suppose if you lined up the drinking habits of people and rated them from 0 – never drinking, to 100 – drinking while awake, I would have been around 80 or 85.  Now I’m about a 40, and it’s made me ashamed to see friends of mine who were my compatible 85 buddies and who would be well within their rights to ridicule my sissy tummy troubles.  God knows, if the situation was reversed I may ridicule them. Maybe I will eventually get a tolerance to the medicine and will go back to my familiar 85th percentile.  Time will tell.

As a side note, it might make an interesting sociological experiment to rate the alcohol patterns of people and their friends to see what range they can accept.  For instance, would my 85th percentile buds hang around with a 75 or a 95?  Would they keep it close, say 80 to 90th?  Is there a 5 out there who can go have dinner with an 85 without judging?  Maybe the 85 is doing the judging?  I should get a research grant and do the math. This also might make a fun doctoral thesis for someone.

Well this year didn’t really start off the way I was hoping.  First, I separated my shoulder which rendered me (mostly) useless at work and interfered with my sleep.  That is starting to get better now, but I can see that it’s going to be quite a while until I’m past the injury far enough to use my fancy new golf clubs.  Next we had a baby born into the family, so we took a whirlwind trip to Edmonton to snuggle the newest grandchild.  When we got back, there were signs of sickness in the air, so we tested and discovered we had picked up Covid in Alberta.  So for the last week or so I’ve been working from home, doing administrative stuff.  The working conditions are good, and the commute is perfect, but I find myself missing the outside world and, even more, my co-workers.  As for the Covid, I got pretty lucky and never got any illness more than the sniffles.  Me and my three vaccinations scored a quick KO.

I also found myself pretty disappointed with that story I wrote, so sitting down to write in the blog seemed unappealing.  But you have to get back on the metaphorical horse eventually, so here I am.

The big news thing of the last few weeks has been the trucker protest in Ottawa.  I am glad we live in a country free enough to allow such a disruptive event, but a few things about it leave me shaking my head.  First, their stated aim was to repeal the vaccine mandate for truckers crossing the border, but the USA has the same rule, so pestering the Canadian government wasn’t going to do them any good.  Second, most of the secondary things that they were upset about, like masks and social distancing, are set by the provinces, so going to Victoria or Edmonton or Quebec City, or whatever capital you live near, would be a lot more efficient than clogging up Ottawa which can’t do anything about those rules.  Then the protest got latched on to by fringe people, waving flags with swastikas and confederate flags, pulling off people’s masks and bullying Asians.  The protest didn’t really need the bad publicity, but there it was.  I also saw several instances of crowds swearing at and menacing news crews.  For what?  You want your point of view broadcast for all to see, so why shoot the messenger?  If favourable coverage of their grieves was what they wanted, that’s going to have the opposite effect. Thanks Donald Trump and everyone dumb enough to worship his world view for bringing in a new era of public mistrust.  It’s funny they say the media are liars, because even when someone says that, they go back and report it as a fair part of the story.  Or maybe you want some bias confirmation in the form of Tucker Carlson, who surely is infinitely less credible than the CBC.  I have said before: you can tell a lying journalist easily – he’s unemployed, and the ultra right Fox News is not the home of many actual journalists.  Plus, it’s American, and we don’t need their bullshit here, we have enough of our own already.  And the result of the truckers’ attempt to swing public opinion on Covid restrictions?  Around 72% of Canadians disagree with them, and that is higher than when the protest began.  Maybe not enough American donors pitched in…

Anyways, sorry about the rant.  I’m not even really against the protest, but I’m definitely against bullying journalists and having foreign countries fund internal disagreements.  Whenever it happens, the next federal election is going to be some fireworks!
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There’s still time to get it together, 2022, but let’s not leave it too long.

Not long ago I got my next writing assignment from NYC Midnight.  I was horrified to see the genre was Fantasy, and the subject was Mutiny.  The kicker for me was I had to include a character that was an Imitator.  What the hell does that mean?  I had eight days to write a 2500 word story using those guidelines, and I spent the first two days pouting and complaining about the cruel twist of bad luck that put me in group 151 with those rules.  So I named a character Flamel the Imitator, but he did nothing to imitate anyone, in person or on stage.  I hope I don’t get disqualified for failing to make my Imitator do anything remotely like duplicating.  Maybe all I really needed was to include a photocopier in my story, but so few good fantasy stories occur in the modern office.  I also picked a pretty dumb name for my story, in my opinion.  I had been looking at it day and night for a week and I just wanted it to go away, and the lame title reflects that.  Since a reader might wonder if the people get away, calling it “Getting Away” is almost like calling it “Spoiler Alert.”  Anyway here it is (it is very long for this blog, so get yourself a drink.)

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Getting Away

The tall, lanky knight, Guillaume, and his fellow knight, the stocky red-headed Renaud strode the misty waterfront of Narbonne, surveying the harbour.  They scanned all the ships, looking for the familiar white sail with the bold red cross.  A few white sails were furled on their masts, but a quick investigation proved none to be Templar vessels.  Without a ship from the Order, they would have to find another ride out of France.

The stronghold at Montsegur had been sacked and looted the day before.  The knights escaped with their two pages.  Flamel the Imitator, an alchemist and mystic, and Georges, the curator of artefacts from the castle, had joined them in their run to the coast.  The armies of the Pope and Louis IX would be looking for them as soon as they discovered the relic missing. The attack on the castle had not been an attack on the Templars, but the Order knew what was concealed there and dispatched these knights to Montegur to keep it from the attackers.

“Well Renaud, it looks as though we don’t have an easy way out of here.  Any thoughts?”

“Even if there was a ship from the Order, they would likely have been engaged in some shipping and had no time to waste on our troubles.  We will have to hire a boat and crew.”

Guillaume spotted a small boat, a single-masted  cog, rocking gently against the wharf with one occupant watching them intently.  “Hello captain!  I see you are not busily loading or unloading, would you be for hire? My fellow knight and our small entourage are in need of flight.”

“Never any good comes from dealing with you bullies.  My crew just sailed from Antioch and they have ten days off at home before we depart again.  It would need to be a substantial offer to lure my men away from their homes, and an extra bundle for the trouble you and those long swords are probably bringing along for the ride.”

“There would be no reason for us to invite trouble onto you or your crew.  We do have an urgent matter that we  must leave to attend to , but I assure you we can give you a fair price for passage to Valencia.”

“Valencia, eh?  That would be two days each way plus a day to rest and feed there.  That cuts my men’s time at home in half.  I have a crew of four, so I think 100 deniers is a fair amount to pry my devout crew from their beloved families.”

“100 deniers?” Renaud interjected. “We simply want to leave France, not buy your boat and deck it with silver.  50 would be generous and fair.”

“100 is my price. Feel free to keep looking at other crews, but I know there is no one else for hire.”

The knights lowered their voices.  “it’s too high, he clearly thinks because we wear the tunics of the Order our purses are bulging with coins,” Guillaume whispered.

“We have that and more, but I’m sure his mangy crew is laying with the local working girls or sleeping off wine in some gutter.  Pious family men?  Ha!  He should go ask this crew of his. If my guess is right, they would love the extra pay and return to the gutter for five more days after the trip.”

Renaud summoned the curator into the discussion.  “Georges, could you please walk the rest of the harbour and see if you can find anyone to hire for less.  Your lack of Templar insignia may be of some benefit.”

He raised his voice again, “Say Captain, why don’t you at least go to your crew and tell them the offer.  60 deniers to Valencia, and we’ll throw in another 5 deniers each.”

“I’ll go and ask, I am a fair man.  Come back before sunset and I will have their answer.”

The knights and their pages, Flamel, and two chests of luggage found a tavern nearby and ordered some fish soup and bread.  Renaud nudged Guillaume and pointed to the back of the inn where the captain was shaking two drunks at a table.  They laughed heartily.  Family men indeed!

They saw Georges wandering around outside.  Renaud’s page ran out and brought him into the tavern.  “Well, Georges, did you find anyone else for hire?”

“No, everyone is very busy around here, they seem to think we had good fortune finding one boat.”

Georges and Flamel sat quietly.  Georges vacantly stirred his soup, and the mystic leaned back with his eyes closed.  As relieved as they were to escape Montegur with their lives, they knew most of their friends and neighbours had not been as fortunate.

“Why did you say Valencia?” Renaud asked, picking a large crumb out of his red beard.

“I thought picking somewhere not too far away might help our chances.”

“I see.  Well the Catholic majesties of Spain will be more inclined to side with Louis on the Montegur business.  I don’t expect a warm welcome there either.”

“We need only to get that boat away from land.  We need to go a lot farther than Valencia to get the Grail safely hidden.”  He took a quick look around to see if anyone nearby had heard his careless mention of the Grail, but was glad to see everyone was focussed on their own affairs.

Late in the afternoon they made their way to the waterfront.  The captain was on his boat already, gathering sailing gear.  “Hey Templars.  My crew will take the offer of 60 plus 5 each.  We can be ready by daybreak.”

Guillaume tried not to look too relieved.  “Fine, my good man, we will see you then.”

They spent the night tucked in a cherry orchard between the trees.  When the knights awoke, they were alone.  They opened a chest and made sure the Grail was still there and intact.  The pages returned shortly with some bread and fruit, and everyone gathered to eat.  Light was spreading across the cloudless spring sky as they made their way to the docks,  gulls screeching overhead.  The Mediterranean was almost still.

“Good morning, travellers,” the captain said with more than a hint of sarcasm.  He and three sunburnt but muscular men were readying the ship for sail.  “We have enough food for you for the trip, but we’re not running a hotel here, so I hope you find sleeping in the hold to your satisfaction.  Oh, and we’d like our money up front so there’s no funny business later.  Luckily for you one of my men can’t make the trip, so you have just saved yourselves 5 deniers.”

Renaud’s page stepped forward and counted out 75 deniers on a barrel top.  The captain scooped the coins up and handed a 5 to each man.  The last of the provisions and cargo was hauled aboard and stored.  Heavy ropes were unwound from the bollards and the ship eased away from the dock.
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There was very little talking.  Flamel and Georges conversed quietly at the rear of the boat while the knights watched the water and the receding land to their right.  The pages found a spot on the rear upper deck and played dice. The crew skilfully tacked the sail to manoeuvre the boat forward, but it was calm and progress was slow.  Lulled by the gentle pitching of the ship and suddenly exhausted from the relief of being away from France, the knights gradually fell asleep on the deck benches.

In the early afternoon they awoke.  Guillaume saw one of the sailors watching him.  “Hey, how are we doing?  Can you judge what progress we’ve made?’

“We’re still off the coast of France.  There’s next to no wind.  At this speed it will be at least three days to Valencia.”

“Thank you.”  Guillaume stretched and decided to track down the mystic, finding it slightly unnerving to walk on the rolling deck.  Flamel was still above deck, drinking in the beauty of his surroundings.  “Say, mystic, is there anything you could do to speed this trip up a little?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”  He closed his eyes and lifted his arms to shoulder height, turning his palms to the sky.  At once a strong breeze blew and those men standing stumbled to regain balance.  The sail filled and the boat lurched ahead.   They could hear the crew shouting to each other over the wind, suddenly busy after a sleepy morning of sailing.  The captain came out from under his covered steering compartment and had a quick conference with his men.  The bow of the boat crashed through white waves and spray soaked the decks.  The boat bucked ahead, making it hard for the land dwellers to move around.

Guillaume smiled at Flamel.  He made his way forward, holding the mast for support.  The sailor he spoke to earlier was controlling the angle of the sail with ropes.  “How about this wind?  Are we making better time now?”

“Yes sir, this is much more work but a damn sight faster.  If this holds up, we will be back in the tavern in Narbonne tomorrow night,”  he said with a wink.

So the afternoon passed in commotion and haste.  They passed an outcrop of rocks far to their right and the captain tilled the rudder slightly, changing bearing to almost due south, passing the traditional border of Spain.  When the land fell away to the west, they cut toward it, hugging the coast at a safe distance.  As night was falling they saw the lights of Barcelona ahead.  The boat headed toward it but stopped in shallow water, furled the sails and dropped anchor for the night.  Strangely for the crew, the winds abated abruptly.  There were comfortable below deck cabins for the captain and crew, but the travellers retired to the hold.  The floor was uneven and wet, and the cargo area was draughty and completely dark.  They slept but not well, waking often to wonder if a noise was ship boards creaking against one another, or rats.

They awoke in a press of men.  Everyone was tired and sore.  It was before dawn on another clear day when they clamoured to the lower deck in their damp clothes, breath billowing around them.  Soon the crew and captain appeared above deck with bread and cheese and everyone ate.

“We got lucky with a good tail wind yesterday, but today looks calm,” the captain mused. “We might make Valencia by nightfall if we get going soon.  Barcelona is a nice town,” he said, waving a bun in its direction, “but we haven’t got time to be tourists today.”

The anchors were winched up and the sail was unfurled.  It filled with cool air and the boat began to skim forward.  Guillaume motioned Renaud to join him in private conversation on the front upper deck.  “We have to make our move early so we can have some hours to run in case there’s trouble.”  Renaud didn’t react, but he knew exactly what his fellow Templar was suggesting.

“We will need to recruit the help of at least a couple of the crew, unless you are suddenly a sailor.”

Guillaume nodded.  “How many deniers do we have left?  There’s a chance they could be paid to stay with us for a while.”

“My page is clutching the purse, but I would estimate we have perhaps 450 left.  Enough for a fat bribe for a common sailor.”

“I have never dispossessed a man of his boat before, so you will have to help me.  As a feisty redhead, this is more your type of action.”

The wind picked up a little as the morning passed.  Flamel smiled to himself as he found the right gradual amount to increase the wind without almost knocking people over like the day before.  Georges sat with the pages and told stories about his former home, and the pages taught him how to play chess from an ivory set from one of the chests.  Meanwhile the two Templars waited uneasily.

Guillaume caught Renaud’s glance and nodded.  It was time.  He shouted to the sailors, “Come here now!  We must speak.”  The puzzled sailors gathered around them.

“We need to go a lot farther than Valencia, as I’m sure you have guessed.  But we cannot sail a ship. Who among you is willing to remain with us through Gibraltar, and for what price?”

He saw the captain storming toward them.  The knights drew their weapons.  “You sir, have a choice to make.  We are taking your ship, and you can steer ashore and survive, and we will pay you for your ship, or you can resist and we will feed the fish with your entrails.  How do you choose?”

The captain panted angrily. “I knew you bastard thugs were no good!  This boat is all I have in the world, but I would prefer to remain alive.  Just know that if we ever cross paths again and you aren’t hiding behind a sword, I’ll serve your testicles to the harbour rats.”

“And you men?” Renaud said, “Who will stay to sail us through Gibraltar for 50 deniers, and who will wade ashore with your captain?”  A young sailor stepped forward and spat in his face and was run through with Renaud’s sword and fell gasping on the deck.  The other two sailors backed away.

” I will stay.”  “I also.”

“Then get back at the sail and you the rudder.  Captain, put that man in the water and stay where I can see you.”  The dying man was rolled off the ship with help from the pages.

Guillaume instructed them to approach the shore.  When they were close enough, they gave the captain 50 more deniers and made him jump.  Swimming was difficult with pockets full of silver, but they watched him drag himself up the beach, miserable but alive for another day, and relatively wealthy.

Flamel raised his palms again and the ship skipped ahead at high speed.  They had many hours to get ahead of whatever trouble the captain might try to unleash on them.  They sailed south but moved slowly east as far from land as they could while remaining in sight.  In the afternoon they passed the island of Ibiza which was level with Valencia, but they continued.  The crew who remained cooperated with their new masters, and as poor sailors they were eager to work for owners with money.  Guiding the ship was hard for two men, but they instructed the pages who were soon passably competent.

A day past Gibraltar they took advantage of the more Templar-welcoming nature of Portugal and ventured ashore in Lisbon for supplies.  Flamel purchased a broken lead mold from a blacksmith shop which he would make chemically imitate gold for the journey. Hiding the Grail was still weeks away, but its safety was now almost assured.

************************************************

Well that was it.  You probably needed that nap (or maybe you need one now.)  My last two stories are both about violent French people from years gone by.  I must be in a rut.  I’m not crazy about the story at all, but I hope that I don’t get called upon to write anything like that again any time soon.  I find out what the judges think of it in April, which is a long time to feel apprehensive about it.

My birthday went by a few days ago.  I worked that day, so I had to pick my way through the icy parking lot to my truck.  A few metres short of reaching my vehicle, I slipped on a patch of ice and landed in a heap on the pavement.  After several hours in the hospital, I found out I have a separated shoulder and a chipped collar bone.  I have been coping with one arm in a sling – thank God it’s the left one! – but some things aren’t solved, like how to shave.  I look like the Uni-Bomber now with some straggly grey whiskers cropping up around the front part of my head.  If I stood up against a building, people would give me change, it’s that bad.  Anyway, it’s for two weeks and I’m sure the time will fly by.

I entered two more writing contests as my new year’s resolution is still front of mind.  I just submitted the first one.  It was a 53-word story that had to be about two of something, or a pair.  53 words is way too short, but it sure keeps you from rambling.  The prize in this contest is the publishers of this prime number magazine, “53”, send you a book and maybe a subscription to their magazine.  There’s no money, but it would still count as pay in my reckoning.

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A Cold Diversion

This http://deeprootsmag.org/2018/07/12/bob-marovichs-gospel-picks-34/ order generic viagra central role of sex in the same positions. The price rises with each dosage and Dosage and Prices order cheap levitra with each pill pack (30, 60, and 90). You tell yourself that it is not really that dangerous, but where you get redirected to a cialis free samples site, or worse, an online haven for viruses. As one may think such dysfunction could be associated cheapest viagra in uk with aging which is partly true and partly not accurate. The twins stumbled breathlessly through the woods, pursuers closing in.  Occasionally musket balls whizzed above their heads.  Being caught would mean the guillotine, if a lead ball didn’t kill them first.

Yves fell across a log.  Philippe hesitated, then stomped on his brother’s leg, breaking it.  “Adieu, mon frere!”   Now, time to escape!

——————————————————

It’s a violent little story, but I wanted something with some action.  The next contest starts tomorrow, and round one is a 2500 word story that I have eight days to write and submit.  After each round, the top five writers move on to the next round, while the remaining entrants are eliminated.  There are four rounds, and each round the stories and time limits get shorter.  In the final round, the assignment is to write a 1250 word story in 24 hours.  The final round is in June.  Doing this will be a pleasant diversion for a clumsy dumbass with a bad shoulder.  I hope to make it through to at least the second round, but you just never know.  When it’s written and submitted I will likely post it on here as a part of my blog’s motto to bring you bargain bin literature, like the adventures of those whacky, fun-loving French Revolutionaries.  By the way, I think Philippe gets away.  He will slow down his trackers quite a bit as they deal with Yves and his broken leg.  Yves’ troubles are just getting started as he gets dragged back to Paris to be guillotined, while his treacherous brother escapes to Spain where he lives a long life.  I made these people up, so their fates are whatever I imagine them to be.  Mwahaha!

Happy New Year, blog people!  It’s time to make a resolution or two, if you’re so inclined.  Every year I try to resolve to do something, but I rarely do it right on  January 1st.  Quite often I don’t land on the winning idea until February or so.  Anyway, over my Christmas holidays I finished a course I had to do for work, so I am (probably temporarily) unencumbered with outside obligations.  And the chess club has been shut down which frees up one more night a week, and my favourite hockey teams are being decimated by illness which frees up more nights.  So this leads me to the big resolution for this year: write more, and maybe in a biblical-level miracle, get paid for it.  Assignment #1 will be to submit a tiny little story to the Press 53 people who require a 53 word story about a “pair of something” and a 53 word biography in case I win.  I’ll let you know how that turns out.  My goal of being paid would be fulfilled, in my mind, if I win a dollar or a magazine subscription or really anything, so I’m not setting the bar too high.

Our youngest little bundle of joy has returned home to live with us for a few months while she finishes her schooling and then leaps from the nest again to find enriching work.  She has brought along her 4 year old son who has given our house a burst of fun, enthusiasm, and non-stop questions, often asked at decibel levels that are sure to share our joy with the neighbours or set off nearby car alarms.  Big upside, besides the elevated levels of joy: she cooked a vegetable dish tonight that did not make me wish to pull out my tongue and scrape off my taste buds in self preservation.  It was good, and I will be watching and taking notes next time she makes it.  Yesterday I made Greek food and nothing turned out quite as I was hoping.  I think a good cook should be able to visualize the meal in terms of taste, texture and display, and then replicate that vision over by the stove somewhere.  Sometimes I pull it off, but not usually.

I got a cheque in the mail while I was off during Christmas, so I treated myself to some new golf clubs.  I bought a set of irons that included eight clubs – six irons and two wedges.  So I put on my checkered pants and lame hat with a dingle ball on it (no I didn’t!) and headed for the driving range to try them out.  My first order of business was to hit ten or so balls with each club to get a good fix on how far they go, so the next time I know I’m 100 yards away, I won’t select a club that goes 50 or 150.  I ordered up a bucket of 130, which I think would be the number of strokes in a typical round at this point.  I hit the ball in every conceivable direction including a couple that went straight, but my crowning achievement was letting go of my driver and having it helicopter about 60 yards to my left.  I had to run out past other golfers and retrieve my club, babbling “sorry, sorry, don’t shoot, sorry…”  And today I am so stiff I can hardly function.  Even my goddamn thumb is stiff!  I don’t believe there is a case to collect worker’s compensation for self-inflicted muscle tightness, so I reluctantly toddled off to work and tried to minimize how much complaining I did.  As for the clubs: I will keep trying, for I know I’m too cheap to let all that money I spent go to waste.

 
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I got the results of the writing contest from the NYC Midnight people, and I didn’t move on.  I was prepared for scathing comments and disappointment, but it wasn’t what happened.  Only the top 10 in each group go on to the next round, and I was Honourable Mention #3, so essentially 13th out of 50.  I can live with that.  Three judges give their feedback, both positive and negative.  All three judges liked one sentence in the story – if you read it, it’s where I say “It’s just me grandma, no more renters to scare.”  They all said that told a lot of backstory.  They all also said they needed some closure on whether her ghost moves on or continues to skulk around in the old house.  To that I say: who has time in 250 words?  Besides, it’s written in first person, and my character sure as hell doesn’t know!

Christmas is nearly here again, so we spent the afternoon trudging around the mall, losing each other, standing in lines.  It snowed last night so it looks like a Hallmark card outside, but the reality is it also rained, so the pretty snow is actually a four inch high pile of slush.  I’m already done with winter and it hasn’t officially started yet.  God, I’m such a baby about the cold!  I want afternoon temperatures to be at least 15 C every day, accompanied by a glimpse of sun at the bare minimum.  Slush and 3 C can kiss my ass.  I heard the average temperature on earth’s surface is 15 C, so it’s not like I’m asking for special treatment.  Where I live the average temperature for the year is just below 10 C, so it tends to be a little more chilly (and damp) than the global mean.  I guess I could always find a hotter place to move, but I don’t really want to.

Tonight, the latest flavour of Covid, Omicron, has postponed all the hockey games I was hoping to watch.  My Canucks have won six in a row, so I was looking forward to them playing.  The evolution of Covid seems to be that it’s finding ways to become more transmissible yet less lethal.  Omicron does only about 10% of the damage to the lungs that previous variants did, so less people are dying and fewer are even getting sick.  Maybe it will evolve into a seasonal cold that will stay with us from here on?  Who wasn’t hoping for more illnesses to enjoy?

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Merry Christmas!  Enjoy the season as much as possible.  Soon we begin the slow march back toward warmth and light.

I entered the NYC Midnight Microfiction contest again this year.  I skipped last year, but did surprisingly well the year before.  My assignment this time was in the genre of ghost story, using the activity of speaking into a microphone, and including the word save.  I wrote a story and got it submitted in time, but I don’t think it was very good, and the others who read it agreed.  Ghost stories aren’t really my thing, and this one-day writing assignment could not have fallen on a worse day.  My daughter and her husband have been staying with us for a couple weeks, as his mother was terminally ill.  She, of course, died the morning I had to write about the undead, which I found suddenly inappropriate, although I never had him read the story and he never offered to.  Then the dryer died, although I did nothing to shield its feelings from my story, and its ghost has not been a problem yet, it was a distraction as well.  So there are my alibis, excuses, complaints for another year.  I’ll find out what the judges think in a month or so.  Here it is, in all its mediocrity.

**************************

Moving On

I crossed the unkempt lawn and squeezed my way through the plywood-covered doorway, into the boarded up house.  I fumbled for a button on my voice recorder and whispered into the microphone, “In grandma’s house, very dark.”

My heart was pounding as I felt my way to the hallway and turned left toward the room she had died in.  “Hey grandma, just you and me, no more renters to scare.”  I opened the bathroom door.  In the deep gloom I could see the room was destroyed, and it reeked of mold.

Suddenly, there was an icy breath on my neck and I panicked and jumped, hitting my back awkwardly on the wall.  The grey outline of an old woman stood before me, “They’re coming to take this away,” she said.   Her voice was soft, and I wasn’t sure if I was hearing her or the words were simply appearing in my mind.

It took a few seconds to compose myself before I stammered breathlessly “You weren’t afraid to die, why didn’t you move on?”

“This is my home.”

My knees trembled from the adrenaline. “Yes, but it’s over.  It’s time for you to accept that you’re dead. Even the house can’t be saved.  Go find family, be at peace.”

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*************************

There is a certain feeling of this being a nearly-true story, as I have considered going into my grandparents’ boarded up old house and having this conversation with my grandma’s ghost, who evidently is still hanging around.  One of the criticisms I got on my story is that it’s too personal.  Might be true.

Back in the summer we went to Kamloops to hang out with the kids for a weekend.  On the way up we stopped in Merritt for lunch with our daughter and her son.  The waitress brought the cute little three and a half year old a Darth Vader pencil case to play with, which I of course stole from him and squirreled away in the Death Star, aka my car.  Don’t worry, he had other toys to keep him amused and didn’t miss it.  He doesn’t read or write yet, so the joys of using Galactic Empire office supplies was going to waste on him for now.

I am doing another course for work now.  It is a course on water works (yawwwn…) that I have to answer questions and mail them back to Sacramento, California.  The fine people at California State University will never guess that the little pencil marks on the sheet are from Darth’s pencil!  Mwahaha!

Fall kind of sucks sometimes.  It is dark, it has been raining for days on end, and everyone is busy busy busy.  Oh, and I cooked chicken thighs tonight using a cajun spice I purchased at the dollar store, and it just tasted like salt.  Not really fall-related, but still it’s a cautionary tale for anyone buying bargain spices.

Until next time, stay safe, warm and dry.  Time is whizzing by, so in no time it will be spring again and we can go outside and enjoy the world.

Well that’s just about it for another summer.  It was long and hot, and now that we’ve moved to a townhouse and don’t have a yard, it was mostly an indoor summer.  Sure, I still work outside, but after I came home at night I was lucky to go out again.  At its peak it was 42 C or so, around 108 F, and it was too hot to do anything.  Then things got combustible and fires sprung up around the province, burning the town of Lytton down at its climax.  Today I am wearing long pants for the first time in at least two months, so clearly it is cooling off.  Another weird thing about this summer was how little socializing we did.  Mostly that was about Covid, but it was also to do with our new-found lack of entertaining space.

I watched a documentary the other day called The Social Dilemma, which showed how social media sites like Facebook keep feeding you stories and videos that are similar to ones you already watched.  Sounds innocent, but the premise of the show was that if you are consuming misinformation, you will get videos that reinforce those points of view.  After a while, a certain amount of the people will have been so bombarded with conspiracies and dangerous ideas that their world view will have been sucked down a vortex of bullshit from which they will never escape.  I see evidence of this every time I read a news article about politics – the comments reveal that people can’t even have civil conversations any more.  The comment threads devolve into name calling and worse.  Of course, nowadays the first order of business when beginning a political discussion is to call your opponents idiots.  In the debate between conservatives and liberals, one side tends to spell better than the other, but both are inflexibly rooted to their position.

The conspiracies are nearly all from a  conservative point of view.  Democrats in the US are “libtards” and satanic pedophiles, while in Canada Trudumb and the Liberals are trying to make Canada a communist dictatorship.  Vaccines are poison and a plot to enrich scheming pharmaceutical companies, and billionaire wimps like Bill Gates in his preppy little sweater vest.  Covid is a scare tactic to keep people locked away and controlled.  Wearing a mask is a sign you are a docile idiot who can be led around.  On and on it goes.  I must be of a sensitive nature, because the bickering bums me out.  I want to follow the news and read comments, but I might as well go open a sewer manhole and watch turds go by.  And if you can operate a keyboard, even a little, (and, sadly, most people can) your opinion is probably as valid as any “expert.”

Fall will be here soon, and after the September 20 election I can go back to distracting myself with beer and hockey, interspersed with golf, eating and petting the cat.  What Cletus and his chickens think about the state of freedom of speech or immigration can just fade away like the brownness of the lawn.  As for the election: I don’t really care who wins, as long as they do a good job.

In regards to masks and offensive stuff like that, remember: To be a decent member of society, sometimes you have to put the needs of society above your own.  It’s a big ask for some people who were raised to think compromising is giving in.
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