I’m afraid all this piss is the product of reverse leaching. Soon I will be a shrivelled mass of illuvium, a statue of mostly salt. When that happens, put me in the backyard, safe from the wind, and let the cliff swallows build their burrows in what’s left of me. That is probably my life’s purpose.
All of the windows were closed and curtained, except the one in the mud room. Its glass had been replaced by a chunk of black-painted plywood, with a small, curtained hole in the far corner that opened to a tiny ramp switchbacking to the sidewalk. He said it was so his cats, Aaron and Garon, could get in and out when he was at work.
Winner 2007 Prism International short fiction contest.
Published in Prism International, 45:4.
Nominated for the Journey Prize and a Western Magazine Award.
Sometimes, instead of going to my father’s or my grandmother’s, I’d crawl through the Brown’s bathroom window and lay on the floor where Mavis’s bed had been. And I would talk to her until the lemon gin let me sleep.
I would watch open-mouthed and silent when he painted the details, especially when he applied the little gold band to the captain's hat. I would wonder how he always knew who the figures were and which was the captain.
Published in Touch the Flame: Stories from the Okanagan Mountain Park Fire, 2004.
We mounted our bikes and headed toward Highway 33. Traffic flowed steadily in all four directions. Riding our bikes along Highway 33 was like riding in a WWII movie; the exodus prior to German occupation. All that was missing was the scream of air raid sirens.