The Lighthouse

the lighthouse

15 June 2017

Fifth of twelve: The Letter (word count: 500)

“Are you ready yet?” Tom asked the child.
“No, not yet,” the reply drifted back to him.
“Ok,” said Tom. “We can take our time.”

Tom sat on a thick lump of driftwood, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against a wind that bit with sharp teeth through his thin jacket. Waves were being pushed onto the rocks by that wind, as it peeled the lake back layer by layer.

They were being peeled into layers, too, he and the girl. Life had become a stinging wind and blunt rocks, and they were caught in between, like the water, being battered by the two.

Ahead of him, at the point where rock melted into sand stood the small girl, Birdie. Tom’s heart wobbled looking at her. She was so little and alone there on the beach, her slightness emphasized by the vast horizon and unending stretch of water. Now and then she would kick a rock into the water with a drunken sounding ‘sploosh’ but mostly she was still, facing the unrelenting waves and the angry sky with all her solitary frailty.

Coming here, this spot, today, had been her idea. Birdie had spent many happy days at this beach, chasing seagulls, collecting shells, watching her mother paint the ever-changing mood of the sky over the lake. She could sit for hours with a pile of books, lost in a story or pouring over illustrations of shore life, eagerly sharing interesting tidbits.

It was a long drive for them to visit Tom, but they would come every summer. They made every visit worthwhile by filling their days with adventures and picnics, and plenty of day dreaming. Those days were touched by gold, Tom thought. Now they were in a time of somber grey.

“Birdie?” he called after some time had passed since he last asked, “are you ready now?”
“Not yet,” came the answer chased by the wind.

So Tom stood for a moment to stomp warmth back into his feet. They had been here, just like this, for hours it felt like. He was willing to wait longer, determined she would have all the time she needed. Each time he asked the question, her answer was the same: not yet.

And then she moved. He was at the point of thinking he would break and take her away before she was ready, but now she was standing in front of him, big eyes bruised with sadness.

“Is it true, Tom?” she asked, holding out the letter he had read aloud to her three times.

“Show me.” she’d said. “She me which words are Mama’s name.” and she’d traced her fingers over the loops and lines he had pointed to.

“Yes, little one. I’m so very sorry, it is true.”

At his answer she flung herself at him, not crying but holding on so very tight.

After a thousand heartbeats he gently pressed her back to look into her too-old eyes.

“Come on, Birdie Let’s go home.”

29 May 2017

12/12 the fourth

This is a painful one. I'm so tempted to pretend the fourth installment of the 12 short stories in 12 months never happened. However, in the interest of honesty and, hopefully, learning from it, I'm going to post my story here though it's very difficult for me to share it. It's very exposing and vulnerable-making to let you read it, for you will discover that not everything I write is fabulous (shocking, I know).  This is entirely my own doing as I didn't leave myself enough time to work this into shape, so the result is a very rough and raw draft, a suggestion of what I intended it to be.
Here it is:

A Little lie
2,500 words

Two men faced each other by the tracks just beyond the railway station. One made note of the green backpack slung over the shoulders of the man across from him, while the other recognized details of black jacket and hat.  Signals acknowledged, they nodded to each other, stepped over the tracks and walked toward a stand of trees in the distance. The man in the black jacket made up for his lesser height with quick, energetic steps, easily keeping up with the taller man carrying the green pack. Once safe from curious eyes under the trees, they faced each other once more. “Roger?” asked one. “Simpson,” answered the other. With this confirmation that he had met the right man, the pack carrier held out his hand. “James Redding,” he said, “You must be Jock Sullivan?”

“It’s Matthew.” This brief reply managed to convey the message that the use of “Jock” came with a high price.

“Sorry, old chap. Roger referred to you as Jock in his instructions.” This was met with silence.

“Right,” said James. “Roger didn’t give me specifics about our target location beyond where to meet you. You’re the navigations expert of the two of us. You know where we’re going?” He realized how inane the question was, but wanted to draw some sort of communication from the man. Weren’t the Irish supposed to have the gift of the gab? Kissed by the Blarney Stone and all that?

Again, silence. This time accompanied by a roll of the eyes. What James didn’t know was that Matthew Sullivan had many reasons to think the English were arrogant sods, and that he had to physically hold his tongue still between his teeth to keep from telling this Redding ass just what he could do with his old chap school tie bonhomie.

“Listen, wee Jock,” Aha! A clenching of the hands. “We’ve got at least 3 days if not four there, and as many back again, with only the pair of us for company - and survival,’ he stressed, “so if you could answer, that would be marvelous. A simple yes or no answer will suffice.”

And so it began. Two men who had little to keep them together aside from instant and mutual dislike with a dash of distrust of the other’s nationality were bound to each other for the sake of friendship - theirs for Roger Simpson, and Roger’s for the Kovač  family.


He shouldn’t have picked up the phone. That was his first mistake right there. He’d seen Roger’s number on the display and despite his trustworthy gut telling him to let it ring through to voicemail, he’d taken the call, and because of it now found himself in some I-could-tell-you-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you backwater and instead of relaxing in front of the telly watching Tottenham wallop Chelsea, he had a week or more of sullen Sullivan to look forward to. Not to mention the possibility they would likely be discovered and made the reluctant inhabitants of an unclean, uncomfortable prison under the beady eye of an unsavoury guard. He’d far rather watch Chelsea win than endure that. Again.

Roger had often convinced his buddy that the very thing he shouldn’t do, was exactly the thing he most wanted to do. In this case, it was that the backwater was exactly where he wanted to be. Of course that wasn’t exactly how he’d sold it.  “Jock Sullivan is as solid as they come, Jimmy. We did some work together back in the day and have stayed in touch. He’s one of us.” Meaning all three were once part of the unnamed, acronym-rich, specialized services on behalf of their respective governments. “He’s already agreed to help me out but he could use someone with your skill set.” Meaning languages, most likely. Unless… was Roger talking about explosives?

“I received an SOS from Beata Kovač yesterday,” Roger had explained. “It was through a conduit I haven’t used in fifteen years, but the protocol was correct and I know it was from her.” Roger’s voice was calm and controlled, but he was right to be concerned. The Kovač family were deeply involved in the resistance effort, and though outright civil unrest had eased years ago, the secret police of the current regime kept a close and steady eye on anyone unfortunate enough to be named on the “Danger to the State” list. Goran and Beata Kovač were not just surveilled, they were phone tapped and frequently invited to tea with the head of the local state police detachment.

“Goran is being denied medication,” Roger said. “It’s some twisted attempt at persuading him to turn. He has enough information about the rebels to dismantle the effort if the State got hold of it. They’ve hit on a remarkably cruel way to ensure his loyalty.” There was heavy sarcasm on ‘loyalty’. “Goran will die. It will not be gentle, and it will not be quick. He’ll be in a lot of pain, Beata will suffer, and while he’s a tough old bird, she’s likely to hand over anything they ask for, to spare him that suffering.”

James knew stability in the region was tenuous, and that the dictator du jour was no gentleman. But were things as bad as this?  He was years beyond intelligence briefings, but surely Doctors Without Borders should be granted entry to the country?

“No.” Roger’s voice was grim. “Crossing points have been locked down. Documents are scrutinized, unknowns are questioned. We’ve gone back in time, my friend.”

Roger went on to explain his plan. His old buddy Jock was familiar with the territory and knew a way in. He would meet James at the rendezvous point and guide him to the Kovač’s village. James was necessary for his medical knowledge, language skills, and knack for blowing things up. Roger himself couldn’t go because he was known by the locals. They couldn’t carry the amount of medicine Beata had asked for without drawing suspicion, so they would carry a discrete homing device. Roger would call in a favour from another friend with a pilot’s licence and access to a plane who would use the device as a guide and parachute the bundle of supplies - why drop only Goran’s medicine when this would be the perfect opportunity to provision the local resistance properly?

How could James say no to that?


Matt Sullivan insisted his own knowledge of the region was more detailed and current than what their maps could provide. So up hill and down mountain they went, crossing fields and passing through forests. They had only the green pack containing the bare minimum of what they needed - not to ease their burden, but because a large assortment of fancy survival gear would draw attention and arouse suspicion. They needed to appear local, like day hikers.

Sullivan turned out to be more than a walking GPS. He could bivouac with the best of them, was handy with a fishing line, and had an uncanny ability to set James’ teeth on edge. Why did the little guy have to be such a… wanker? It hadn’t taken long for James to catch on to the fact that the Irishman was sensitive about his height - or rather lack of it. Naturally, then, he had to take every opportunity to needle him about it. Through it all, the man was sullen and mostly silent, which in turn teased James’ inner pest to liveliness. The enforced partnership was unpleasant for both men.

Contributing further to their discomfort was the weather. It had taken to a steady, chilly drizzle that slowly turned open ground to mud, while in the woods, fallen leaves became slippery and uncertain underfoot. The sun rarely made an appearance, and the morose grey of each day was beginning to seep into their spirits. Random patrols seemed to be increasing in frequency on the roads they could see in the distance, meaning they relied on Sullivan’s skills at building shelter in the open rather than overnighting in a barn. More than once Wee Jock’s superior hearing saved them from stepping out of the safety of cover into what would have been an interesting situation with one of those patrols.

For his part, James kept up a sporadic - but satisfyingly annoying - one-way conversation for the pleasure of seeing the deepening imprint of stoicism on the Irishman’s face. Then on the second night he had the pleasure of being proved useful. A roving trio of patrollers found a fishing line Sullivan had strung from a tree, next to the beginnings of a fire pit. The two were setting about making camp for the night when they heard the unwelcome voices. Without a word, James and Matthew set a plan of evasion in motion: Matthew by dismantling the shelter into its component bits and pieces of nature, and James by circling around the by now excited patrol to their vehicle in order to install a cunning mix of explosive and stabilizer disguised as a stick of gum up under the body of the truck. When the engine came to life, the gum would receive the fuel it need to blow, creating the merest pop of sound, leaving no evidence, but managing to immobilize the vehicle most gratifyingly.

There had been a short game of cat and mouse by the dying light of nightfall, but once the patrol decided to give wheeled chase, the game was called when anger and confusion took precedence over pursuit when the truck wouldn’t start.

On the evening of the third day they reached their destination: the outskirts of a small town within bullying distance of the capital. Roger had described the location of the Kovač cottage as being at the end of a quiet lane with a large meadow just beyond. Its near-isolation meant their approach shouldn’t be noticed, but it also could make their presence glaringly obvious to any who happened by.

At their knock, Beata cautiously guarded against light spilling over the entry as she peered out at them. James quickly gave Roger’s name and the credentials that would assure her they were friendly. With a quickly smothered cry she gestured them into her home, closing the door and locking the night out behind them.

Excitement and gratitude were tempered with caution as their stories were told. Sullivan was only partially able to participate as his command of the language was rudimentary, but he followed as best he could, and James filled in the gaps in both directions. It didn’t take long for the two men to understand why Mrs. Kovač was dear to Roger: she scolded them, forced food and drink on them, insisted they wanted baths and clean clothes, and basically bossed them around like a long-experienced mother hen.

While Matthew took his turn using up the hot water supply, James slipped out back door and into the field beyond the house.  He set up the homing device on a short tripod, arranging a rock and other bric-a-brac to subtly distract any eyes that might glance in this direction. Now there was only waiting.

It happened two nights later.  Matthew was never more pleased to hear a sound that could very possibly send trouble in his direction: a plane was heard faintly overhead. Fetching James from where he sat reading to Goran at the kitchen table, he led the way out the back door, just in time to see the dark silhouette of a box and parachute drift to the ground.  They worked silently, but quickly and efficiently as only two men who’d had similar training could do, to separate the box from the parachute straps, securely hide the chute, and carry the box into the cottage.

It felt like Christmas to the four people watching the lid be prised off the wooden crate. There were murmurs of surprise and delight from the Kovač couple as they discovered the requested medication for Goran as well as other medicines sure to be useful in the village, simple communications equipment, and - here Roger’s sense of humour was evident - chocolate bars, Levi’s jeans, oranges, and cartons of cigarettes. “As though we were behind the Iron Curtain!” scoffed Goran, but with a twinkle of delight in his eyes.

They had quite forgotten their need for caution in their exploration of the bounty when there was a terse knock at the door. All sense of gaiety was sucked out of the room as panic threatened to take over. There was no time to do more than repack the box and deposit it behind the sofa with a blanket hastily draped over it. Goran arranged himself in his armchair looking as weak as possible, while Beata took up some knitting.  James and Matthew sat on the sofa with a game of chess arranged in front of them. They tried to give the impression they were not, in fact, an English and an Irishman, but were indeed local and perfectly belonged exactly where they were.

A second knock accompanied by raised and angry voices were quickly followed by a beefy shoulder to the door, allowing five bodies to fill the room. Beata sprang to her feet, protesting their sudden presence in her home and their muddy shoes on her carpet. The man in charge looked momentarily abashed before he remembered his very important role as head of the local detachment of state police. The others with him were volunteers, and that, perhaps, made them even more enthusiastic about their duty.

Questions were tossed and accusations were flung in a confused volley of voices. After hearing denial after denial that any of them knew anything about a flying box, the lead accuser demanded to know who the two strange men were. For all their training and despite all their experience, Matthew and James had never discussed how they should explain their presence in the cottage, trusting instead that their short tenure and plain good luck would make such a tale unnecessary.

Beata, without a pause, claimed them for her sons. She looked each official boldly in the eye, daring them to deny her maternity. “My boys went off to fight years ago,” she said. “You know this to be true, Nema.” this was directed at one of the men, the only one who actually lived in the village. “They stayed in the city to work, and have come home to visit their mother after too long away.” By some unlikely alignment of providence, the blustering men took Beata at her word. They trooped out of the cottage in order to disturb the peace of some other family, leaving the Kovač couple and their guests to laugh in giddy disbelief at their good fortune.

Three days later, the two men faced each other over the tracks once more, one in black jacket and black hat, the other with a small green sack slung over his shoulders.
“Best of luck to you, Matthew,” said James, gripping the other man’s hand firmly.
“Call me Jock,” replied Sullivan, with a smile on his face. 

23 May 2017

Of loss and the uncertainty of knowing

I lost someone last week.

‘Lost.’We use such euphemisms in an attempt to sanitize the reality of death, and as a buffer from the pain of absence.

But ‘lost’ is a good word to use when a person dies because it happens to be true. The loved ones, the survivors, the ones left behind feel lost in the wake of death. The emptiness that remains feels like loss, an absence, like phantom limb pain. I still feel the gap where my dad belongs in my life, and missing him is definitely loss.

There is also the loss of all that a person was, in life: their creativity, their being, their giving, their presence in other people’s lives, how they impact the world around them in simple ways or profound. If any of you think you are insignificant and inconsequential, just think about how many lives you touch just by being. I promise you, the loss of you would be felt.

The person I lost wasn’t a family member, a friend, or a work colleague, and yet I am left grappling with what his death means to me. He has been in my life for over twenty years, part of the soundtrack of my days since college, a frequent companion during road trips, the beautiful voice piped through speakers and headphones. He wrote lyrics that spoke of pain, anger, searching, love, redemption, and plain old fun. Poets have a way of taking up a place in the heart, speaking your truth in a way you couldn’t with your own words. Poetry set to rock music is no less powerful, or personal.

I didn’t know him beyond what he shared with us through his music. I’m not devastated as at the death of a friend. What I am is very very sad at the loss of creative talent. I am aware of a new gap where he used to be, a definite absence of something, someone, I liked very much. There will be no new songs, no anticipated albums, no surprising new collaborations, no happy discoveries of concert clips, no further interview discussions of life and music. I am so very sad for his children, his wife, bandmates, and friends. I am sorry for the loss they will now carry through the rest of their lives.

Chris Cornell might be a name you know now because you’ve heard the news of his death and all the speculation as to the cause. It was probably suicide. That is a jarring, shocking word, isn’t it? It may have been suicide resulting from the horrifying side effects of an anti-anxiety medication. That is jarring and shocking, too.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this in the days since the news came out: to what extent is a person responsible for their actions when there are extenuating circumstances such as faulty brain chemistry or misfiring medication? Do we believe that a person always, no matter what, is able to make a free choice? Do we think that is true even if a person is in the grip of deep depression, severe anxiety, delusion, or paranoia? Is our understanding of the brain and all its complexity comprehensive enough to know that with certainty?

If it is true, if Chris took his own life because in a lucid moment he truly believed death was his only option - perhaps even planning it over a period of time - it is tragic. It is tragic because if he had been able to wait until the morning, spoken with his kids, had an uplifting interaction with a random stranger in the hotel elevator, or written the beginnings of a promising new song, he might have decided to carry on for one more day, then one more after that. And if it is true that the workings of his brain in that moment made it impossible for him to think clearly about the consequences of what he was about to do, how utterly horrifying to think of a life extinguished like that.

I don’t know which scenario is true. I do know that I’m at a loss as to how to think of this beyond “It’s so sad.  I am so sad.”

I lost someone, and I’m so sad.

18 April 2017

Pushy reversals

On the highway this morning was a very large, very long transport truck. On the rear panel, in a font large enough I could read it from 15 cars back, was this: DO NOT PUSH
I should have a sign like that following me around like a cartoon thought bubble.

In the parking lot, I watched the maneuverings of a woman parking her SUV. She was reversing into her chosen space, carefully inching backwards, correcting left and right until she had her vehicle tucked in just so.  The funny thing is, it was a drive-through parking spot.

People are endlessly entertaining.

12 April 2017

12 short stories, the third

Title: New Life
Genre: Speculative fiction
Word count: 1000

She hurt. She hurt all over. Even her eyelashes felt bruised. She braced herself, preparing for the deep pain sure to come and opened her eyes.

With a grimace, eyes wide, she gingerly turned her head and saw what appeared to be a tunnel. It was dark green in colour, nearly absent of light. It looked to stretch on to nowhere and - with a careful turn of her head - came from no real where either.

It was a struggle, but she managed to sit up. Her head was clearer and she could see that the dark green was actually foliage, dense to the point of resembling a woven fabric. She did not recognize this place. She did not know where she was or how she came to be there, but she did know she didn’t belong there. She knew she wanted out of there.

Taking stock, she determined that, despite the all-encompassing ache, she should be able to get to her feet and move. That’s when she noticed her appearance. It looked like she had been through a battle: dirt coated her clothes, palms raw with scrapes, mud clinging to her boots, and most frighteningly, a vine curled snugly around one ankle. She tugged at it, then tugged harder, with little effect aside from rising panic. She managed to clamber upright and took a step forward with the other foot thinking to forcefully pull the trapped one free of the vine. To her surprise, the heavy rope of vegetation dropped away. She took quick, anxious steps forward to get away from the thing, then stopped with the realization she didn’t know where to go: there was no clear path to follow, there were no landmarks to guide her, and she could see no horizon from which to get her bearings.

She would just have to move forward, then; forward being the direction she began with. But she was immediately pulled up short by, she saw with horror, yet another vine twined around her ankle. Panic mounted higher, exacerbated by the heavy thickness of the air she had to struggle to take in. Her mind began a refrain: “Get me out; get me out; get me out…” How was this happening to her?

Again, it was the simple act of walking forward that loosened her from the snare of the vine. And so it went for what felt like hours. As long as she kept in motion, maintaining forward momentum, she was able to forge a way through the dark tunnel, but as soon as she stopped she would become entangled once more.

Reaching a state of exhaustion to the point of struggling to move her limbs or keep her eyes open, she realized she couldn’t go on any further without taking some rest. Giving the matter some thought, she began searching out rocks and stout branches with which to construct a sort of barricade behind which to refuge for a few hours at least. As she found suitable specimens she filled her pockets, then used the bottom of her shirt as a basket of sorts, clutching the ends of fabric until the weight became too much.What she had at that point would just have to be enough.

Without being too clever about construction methods, she arranged her building material in a rough oval shape, just large enough for her to curl up inside of. She took care that every part of her body and clothing was within the perimeter, then, despite how rough and uncomfortable the ground, she fell swiftly to sleep.

Untold hours slipped through the dense forest tunnel as she slept without dreaming. There was no rising sun to awaken her, or early birdsong to disturb her slumber. When she opened her eyes it was to a world that looked much as it had when she’d closed them. Struggling to bring her protesting body upright, she was relieved to see that her barricade had done its job: she was free of clinging greenery. With equal relief she noticed that on the larger leaves in arm’s reach of her fortress were drops of heavy dew, and that by bringing the tip of a leaf to her mouth she could drink of the water.

Thirst slaked, she stood inside the protective circle and took stock of her situation. She could see no food so she would have to remain hungry for now.  With no clearer idea of direction or destination she would carry on as yesterday, one foot in front of the other in a steady march.

Accustomed to walking through the green darkness, she was able to pay attention to her thoughts, which, she realized, were actually quite busy. She had vague impressions of herself before waking up here. There had been light, certainly, and laughter, but also noise and fear and emptiness. Was she trying to get back to that, or had an attempt to escape it brought her here? She had to get out of this place, but felt her connection to anything from before first waking here was fading.

Now knowing the trick to escaping the green snares, she regularly took time to rest. As time passed she realized she had made a sort of peace with her circumstances and acceptance resulted in relative calm. One step then another was all she could do, so that is what she would do. When hunger became unbearable, she would figure out what she could eat. When she became too tired to continue, she would again construct a barricade and sleep until she woke once more.

Finally, her mind took notice of what her feet had been telling her for some time: the lush vegetation had become considerably thinner. There was more light and the air was no longer heavy. Each step was easier than the one before. Moving more quickly, she soon found herself standing under the last tree at the edge of a vast meadow. A gentle rain fell, and the bright sun kissed her face.

06 April 2017

This is dedicated to the one I love

There are perks of being a cataloguer. Best of all is being able to see the new books and things as they are unpacked.  It need not be said - and yet I shall write it anyway - that my wish list resulting from all this seeing of new books is several pages long, and on my work desk is a perilous stack of books I think of bringing home if only there, the shelf, two chairs, night table, and floor space I have given over to books I intend to read in the next few days weren't already filled to capacity.

One of my favourite things to do is read the author dedications. Some are sweet, some are clever, some are silly, and some obscure. Some are about libraries and librarians - always a winner. All of them are fodder for imaginative suppositions of who the dedicatee may be, and I always wonder if the author told the recipient of the honour thus bestowed upon them, or if they merely hoped that special person would one day come across it and recognize the message was meant for them.

I don't write all of them down, of course, but what follows is a brief assortment of some I have collected in my notebook over the past few months:

~For Tess. Mi vuoi sposare?  (A most original and perfect proposal!)

~Thanks, Mom and Dad, for raising a reader.

~This book is dedicated to all librarians everywhere - for they are the true keepers of the secret flame and not to be trifled with.

~For Mum. Thank you for everything, especially the library books.

~For every girl who wants to write her own story.

~Dedicated to the Mount Vernon City library, where I first found the ladder.

~For Catharine, first and favourite raisin girl.

~For my husband, kidlet, and family. (This is seemingly ordinary and unremarkable until I tell you it was the dedication of a book of dom/sub erotica)

~Dad, I wrote a book.

~For Paula Pea.

~This book is for Olive who gave me a new life.

~Quite simply this book is for my readers.

~For Nap, with gratitude for a life of love + laughter.

~To Sadie, beloved niece since 22:22, 02/02/02 - Sadie Sue, this one's for you. (Very sweet until you realize the book is a story about a teen murder victim)

~If you, dear reader, have not this very day observed at least three instances of the magical, the mysterious, or the miraculous, do set this book down right away. Find a story more to your disposition. Perhaps something about chalk.

Writing a book requires a great deal of work and imagination. Could you go one step more and come up with a really good dedication?

03 April 2017

Playing by the numbers

Today is opening day of baseball season. On the drive in to work this morning, Canada's Broadcaster interviewed a woman who wrote a book about baseball. I know! I was totally surprised, too, but apparently there is enough to say about baseball to fill a book. Anyway. She said that one of the wonderful things about the game is that it can take a long time to end. I mean, a loooonnng time. 27 innings constitutes a substantial portion of the day (insert tongue-sticking-out-emoji)

Alright, alright, so 27 innings would be unusual but honest to Pete, the game does evolve slowly, does it not? And after all of that three up-and-three downing, you are not guaranteed high scoring results.

Then it occurred to me... hang on a minute!  These are complaints often leveled against the Beautiful Game of football (soccer, if you must). North American men claim a sport needs non-stop action and astronomic scores in order to be entertaining. This doesn't explain televised golf or fishing shows. Or bowling. The theory disregards the endless, unendurable time outs, consultations, and team changes of the National Football League. It ignores the fact that in both oval-ball football and basketball, the final score is inflated by 'seven points for this' and 'three points for that' rather than reflecting one point earned for each successful attempt at a goal or basket.

To end a post that had far too many numbers in it, I have only this to say: There's no accounting for taste.