Guest Author Stevie Turner of East Anglia, UK

The Scribbler has an international scope, readers and writers from all over the world. Todays guest is Stevie Turner of East Anglia, United Kingdom. An accomplished author with 8 novels and 4 short stories published which focus on the darker side of relationships, but also have her trademark sprinkling of humour.

She is enjoying an early retirement and is now a full time writer. She is married with "an ever-expanding" immediate family. She gains inspiration while walking along the country footpaths and byways around her village.

This week we are fortunate to have one of her short stories that will be published in a collection later in 2016. Her link is listed below.

A MARRIAGE MADE IN HEAVEN, by STEVIE TURNER

COPYRIGHT STEVIE TURNER 2016

 

          “I hear you’re looking for a quick way to pay off your debts.”

          I look up as a stocky young guy with clean, dark, waist-length hair puts his lunch tray down opposite me and takes a seat.  I don’t know him but have seen him around the campus, usually carrying a guitar in a case on his back.

          “I might be; as long as it’s legal and I get to keep my clothes on.”

          I nibble on my sandwich as nonchalantly as I can, enjoying his throaty chuckle at my remark.

          “Well, it’ll definitely be legal, but it’s up to you about the clothes.”

          Intrigued, I study his face for more clues.  There are two laughing blue eyes trying to hide behind copious amounts of dark facial fuzz, which I swiftly decide he’d look better without.

          “Out with it then; I’ve a lecture starting in twenty minutes.”

          “Sure.”  He nods. “It’s like this; I’m here on a student visa which runs out in October, but it’ll be better for my musical career if I can stay in the UK.”  He takes a bite of his burger and scans my face intently. “So……. you agree to marry me, and I put fifteen thousand smackeroos in your bank account.”

          “Bloody hell!”  I nearly choke on my food. “You move right along, don’t you?” 

          “Don’t give me an answer now; think about it.”  He waggles his finger at me. “I’m not saying all this just to get into your pants; I really need to stay here.  Things are happening for me and my band.”

          “Jeez.”  I look at him aghast. “Married?  I don’t even know your name!”

          “Ha; it’s Gerrie Hermann.  So you’re interested then? What’s your name, by the way?”

          His accent is appealing, but I can’t quite place it.  I have a terrible mental image of taking him up North to meet Mum and Dad, the straightest, poorest, but proudest parents in all the land.

          “Sophie Woods, but I can’t see it working.” I shake my head.

          “Sure it will.  You don’t have to love me or anything, ‘cos I’m basically an arsehole.”  His eyes twinkle. “We get married; I go my way, and you go yours.  Only now you’re fifteen thousand pounds richer.”

          I try not to laugh as I finish up my cola and look at his frayed denim waistcoat and dirty-white tee shirt.

         

“And where are you, arsehole extraordinaire, going to get fifteen thousand quid from?” 

          “I’ve already got it from my parents and from playing gigs.  Come with me to the hole in the wall and I’ll print you out a balance.”

          “I’ve got a lecture.  I’ll think about it.” 

                              ***

          Gerrie finds me again the next day in the cafeteria.  I notice with distaste the same off –white tee shirt, but this time without the waistcoat.

          “See you at the cash machine at half past four.”  He winks as he walks past me. “Don’t be late.”

          The effrontery of the guy is amazing.  However, intrigued, I find myself walking a circuitous route to the accommodation unit after lectures end, just to see if he’s there.  He is; waiting there like Winnie the Pooh on steroids, with a smile on his face the size of the Blackwall tunnel.

          “I knew you’d come!”  He’s almost jumping up and down with glee. “You’re not seeing my pin number, but you can have the print-out.”

          I look away as he pops his card in the reader and enters the pin.  I still cannot believe somebody looking the way he does could possess thousands of pounds in his bank account.  He requests a balance and gives me another grin.

          “Mum and Dad are minted. Why do you think I’ve been able to get a student visa?”

          I take the balance print-out from him, and am surprised to discover there is over thirty thousand pounds in his account.

          “Because you murdered them and stole all their money?”  I look again at the piece of paper just to make sure.

          “Wrong. I told you; they’re wealthy.  What do you say?  Come down to the bank with me tomorrow lunchtime, and I’ll transfer it over to your account.”

          It was all moving too fast.  I saw a summer of not having to work at menial jobs in order to pay Mum and Dad back, who had re-mortgaged their home in order to be able to send me to university.  I could repay my debt to them in dribs and drabs so as not to cause suspicion, and be done with it. They’d never find out I was already married, and I could always say to a future partner that I didn’t need a marriage certificate to prove my commitment.  I decided for once in my life to live dangerously.

          “Okay, but wait until exams are over.  I’ll book it for some time in July, but you’ll have to shave though. I hate beards.”

          Gerrie shakes his head.

          “No way; love me, love my beard.”

          “I don’t love you, and I’m not marrying a guy whose face is full of fuzz.”

          “Bugger.”  Laughs Gerrie. “You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?”

          “Take it or leave it.”  I reply.

         

                                                             ***

         

          It’s a lovely day for a wedding, as fifteen thousand pounds richer, I stand on the steps of Newham Registry Office with my husband of just ten minutes.  We thank our two witnesses, and ask them to take some photos of us with our iPhones.  The witnesses comply, and then disappear into the throng of passers-by from whence they came, Gerrie looks at me and gives a whoop of joy.

          “Yes!  Thanks for this Sophie; you don’t know what it means to me.”

          “Thanks for the money.”  I laugh.  “Let’s go and celebrate!”

          As we walk along to a nearby pub, I take a swift glance at the newly-shaven Gerrie, who actually looks devastatingly handsome in a three-piece suit and cravat.  He catches my eye and puts a casual arm around my shoulder.

          “So you like the new me, eh?”

          “Sure.” I blush furiously. “You’ve scrubbed up pretty well.”

          “You’re not so bad yourself.”  His gaze travels up and down my body in an instant. “Fancy coming along to my gig tonight?  We can go for a curry afterwards if you like?”

          I’m suddenly happy that we’re not going our separate ways straight off.   I quickly agree, and with a mounting excitement look forward to what might happen after the curry.  After all, it is our wedding night!

         

 

 

Thank you Stevie for this entertaining story. 

 

 

Please drop by Stevie's site and check out her books and more.

 

www.stevie-turner-author.co.uk    

Next week on the Scribbler you will meet author Ann Knight of Moncton, New Brunswick.

Would love to hear from you. Please leave a comment and tell me where you are from.

Guest Author Jason Hamilton of Dieppe, NB.

This man owns a Yurt! He's also a clever storyteller and the Scribbler is pleased to have him visit this week. Ever wonder what leads someone to become an author? Read on for one person's account of their journey!

I suppose there are easier ways to kick-start a writing career than building a yurt. Alright, there were more reasons that just my writing career for building a luxury Mongolian tent in 2010. Chief among them was getting out of show business.

At that point (2010) in my professional life, show business was everything. It was my job and it was my lifestyle. Everything rolled into one. And yet, despite making a good living as a film lighting technician, I wasn’t completely satisfied.

  

          When I first broke into the industry my end goal wasn’t to become a film lighting technician. It wasn’t my intention to chew up all my time and energy being a cog in the wheel of someone else’s film. My intention was to make my own. But that wasn’t quite how it all unfolded.

            For three years, starting in 1997, becoming a filmmaker was all I thought about. Learning the industry. Gaining confidence. Contacts. Then I would make my film. My move.

            Sure, I’d made a few short films before. I started making them in high school. A couple in university. But I wanted to take the next step. Make my mark. Move beyond being a crew member.

            Finally, in 2001 I completed “Shotgun Journalism”. It was a flop. After applying to several dozen festivals it got accepted into exactly ONE. It was back to making my living as a lighting technician.

            That’s not to say I was banished to Siberia. Film can be a very good job that provides a good income….provided there’s work. For any number of unpredictable reasons you could be as busy as hell one minute and famished the next. And then there are the grueling days.

            These two (BIG) factors contributed to looking beyond film to find fulfillment during those lean times. Though I continued to write, my confidence, not surprisingly, had taken a bit of a hit. Instead I tried being a handyman. An apprentice electrician. I even refocused my efforts into freelance writing. But no matter what I did when film work picked up again I always went crawling back. I had made a lifestyle choice that would require drastic measures to break free of completely.

            Enter parenthood.

            Or, more accurately, accidental parenthood.

            The year my short film appeared in ONE film festival was also the year I would fatefully meet my common-law heterosexual life partner Sylvie Mazerolle. During one of the slow times in Toronto, I ventured out Atlantic Canada to work on a couple of movies. The first was in Halifax. The movie: “Phase IV” starring Dean Cain and Brian Bosworth. The second was “Vendetta: No Conscience, No Mercy” starring Daniel Baldwin.

           

Sylvie was a make-up artist on the Saint John movie. We started as a fling. It turned into a long-distance relationship. Later that year I asked her to move in with me.

            Now, truth be told, I wasn’t the ONLY reason she moved from Moncton, NB to Toronto, ONT. She was pursuing her dream of becoming a make-up artist. But, fortunately for all concerned (and to the surprise of the many who’d seen a film fling come and go) we’re still together.

            Seeing as how we were both established in our careers, parenthood wasn’t exactly top of mind. Not until we started to notice the encroaching sands of time. We decided to take a six-week trip to Southeast Asia to answer the question of whether or not we wanted to become parents. (That trip became the subject of my second book “Finding Asia”)

            We came back no more certain about that topic, but damn sure about our love of travelling!

            Luckily for us, film was custom-made for people who liked to work their asses off so they could have time and money for just such a purpose.

            And that’s when Drew Barrymore entered the picture.

            Yes, that Drew Barrymore, and no I’m not a celebrity stalker.

            In most of her films, what you see with her is what you get. She’s bubbly, funny, sweet, cute and sexy. For most of her movies she didn’t exactly stretch her acting chops to achieve box office glory.

            But every now and then an actress gets a chance to step out of their comfort zone and push their limits. I just happened to be working on the film where that happened.

            The name: Grey Gardens.

            Normally bubbly and fun with the crew, Ms. Barrymore employed the method style of acting to accurately portray the character “Little” Edie Beale. She was in character 24/7. She wouldn’t answer unless addressed by the name of her character. Meh, whatever it takes. I didn’t think twice about her chosen method.

            In addition to remaining in character during the entire shoot, there was also the matter of extensive make-up, wardrobe and hair requirements. Shooting days became marathon 15-hour days.

            By the time we wrapped on principal photography a few weeks before Christmas 2007 everyone was exhausted. But still up for a few festivities.

            Not often does A-List talent appear at the wrap party. Perhaps owing to the grueling demands of method, or hair or whatever, Ms. Barrymore did indeed make an appearance. I happened to run into her on the way to the bathroom. It was a long hallway, separate from the rest of the venue. She saw me and stopped right away.

            We started chatting and she professed her guilt at not being more social while on set (which, apparently she is known for). I reassured her it was okay, but she would have none of it.

            “I so wanted to talk to you,” she pleaded, “You seemed so nice. I’m really just a hippy valley girl.”

            And then she gave me a big hug and a kiss before going on her way.

            I floated back to the dance floor as I met up with my wife. Remember me, Jason from Palmerston. Farm boy who just had a chance meeting with a beautiful Hollywood star. Those butterflies must have lasted a bit longer than I anticipated.

            That December we drove to New Brunswick to celebrate Christmas. Sylvie’s parents greeted us as we stepped in the front door.

            Flo Mazerolle greeted her daughter with a tight, warm hug before she noticed immediately that something was amiss. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t hold back what her mommy instincts were telling her:

            “YOU’RE PREGNANT!”

 *

            Being in show business is grueling. Doing something you didn’t set out to do even more so. Being a new parent, living on a main street in a major city without family help all contributed to our decision. It wasn’t arrived at arbitrarily. Not long after our son was born, Sylvie and I were putting in the time to figure out an exit strategy from film. There was a catch. How do you translate film experience into the real world?

            I saw it as an opportunity. Y’see during those long slow times on set I’d salvaged my sanity with the help of a notepad. About two dozen of them over the years. In addition to all of the other things I tried to get out of the industry, I also managed to get a few articles published. I took a Copywriting course. I thought if I had just the right shove, a clean break away from film, I could find a full-time position as a writer.

            THAT was my goal. What I got when I first moved to New Brunswick in 2010 was freelance work. I tried to make the best of it but it didn’t go well. I switched careers and jobs a few times. But the experience of making the move from Toronto to New Brunswick was perfectly suited, in my eyes, to a book. Unfortunately a book takes time. Time doesn’t wait. I needed to get some kind of income that was going to lead to something. I parlayed my film lighting experience into an electrical apprenticeship. Once again I was far away from my goal of becoming a writer. Only this time the monetary remuneration wasn’t nearly so good. And to add to my misery I was working for a man who, when provoked, could scream and yell like a banshee.

            My only salvation: I went back to my notepad. I wrote like crazy. I also I pitched the hell out of “Life, the Yurt and Everything” and I also vowed to make that unwelcome tyrant the bad guy in my first novel. In the evenings I would pitch. In the mornings I would write.

            I quickly wrote the rough draft of my first novel “The Prince of Acadia & the River of Fire” in the car before my dreary workday would begin. I was also feeling hopeful that “Life the Yurt and Everything” would get picked up by a publisher or an agent.

            After several months (and the occasional earful of indignation) I finally got the break I was looking for. I had a New York agent interested in the idea. He asked me for a re-write on the sample chapters I sent him. I was FINALLY going to get out from under the foot of the John Gerryston (not his real name) aka the White Wizard!

            And then the agent regretfully declined. I kept pitching for another ten months. I finally had enough. The idea needed to get out. I needed to get out from under it. Turn the page on that chapter. Find the resolution to the story. Put it to bed. I took it upon myself to publish.

         

   Like a proud parent I gave birth to the book “Life, the Yurt and Everything”. A year later I finished the travel book “Finding Asia”.

            Two books and NO marketing plan. Evidently I had it backwards. I thought distribution was the most important thing. I’ve since learned marketing is the key. The rest will take care of itself.

            I’m now putting some of that hard earned wisdom to use with my first novel. Once again I have the book ready before I have everything else. Well, not everything. I have a domain. I have a Facebook page. I have the beginnings of an email list. I started public speaking.

            In short, I’m putting in the building blocks for a career. It started with “Life, the Yurt and Everything” and continued in “Finding Asia” and now I’m going in a slightly new direction with “The Prince of Acadia & the River of Fire”.

            It’s taken me six years, five careers, four jobs, and one yurt to get to this point. All things being equal, I might concede a weekend writing retreat might have been a cheaper alternative.

           

           

 Thank you Jason for this great article.

 

Although his website is "Under Construction" you readers can tuck this email address away and catch up on what Jason is up to - www.jasonhamilton.com

His books are available at amazon.com

 

 

Next week on the Scribbler, we are excited to have Stevie Turner of East Anglia, UK as our guest author.   

           

Funeral Food - Part 2 by A. Hudson

Last Friday, you were able to read Part 1 of Funeral Food to find Annabelle attending a funeral of someone she doesn't even like......if you missed it, keep scrolling down and you will find it below this one.

Here's the rest of the story.

Biting his lower lip, he regains his poise. He apologizes for his “hay fever” and continues:

“…the perils of spring. And like Mildred, whose life was only beginning to bloom…”

Annabelle clouds out the canned, memorized sermon. All she can think of is the waiting pirogues, hopefully some paska; she loves that sweet egg bread. A feast awaits twenty-one steps down the right hallway. Her stomach rumbles at the nearness, a low growl. A young man, pointy beard and skinny face, sitting several spaces away from her frowns at her. She waves away his concern with a silk-gloved hand. A sheen on the fingertips, a few missing sparkles about the wrist, the gloves are old.

She’ll wait until almost everyone is out, the last ten or so. The sympathy lineup will be long and most likely there will be those that can’t wait to eat. Annabelle intends to eat and leave as soon as she can, but she’ll have to mingle with mostly overweight people who are the first at the table. She’ll stand out like a poodle in a dog sled.  If she dawdles, the crowd at the door will bunch up. She decides to wait, then befriend one of the two older ladies she can see in the row to her left. Their identical grey buns suggest sisters. The bent posture indicates they are close to her age.

Possible scenarios of conversation occupy her mind until her musing is interrupted when the crowd rises. Annabelle stands, arranges her hat while strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D descend from overhead speakers. The sound of people moving, the slight whispers mean the end. Reception room next.  Two staff wheeling a brass-railed, linen-draped, urn-bearing trolley lead the family towards the wide doors that have been opened by other staff. The only one she recognizes is the older man pushing the cart. While waiting for the end of the procession she ponders how they can keep such a somber face when the ashes of their attention are encased in a hand-carved wooden dog. 

Shrugging her wee shoulders, noticing the crowd is turned away from her, she sticks her tongue out at the urn as it passes the last seats and blows a soft blat. The boy directly in front of her hears the odd disturbance and turns to her with a grin.  He probably thinks the old gal farted. Dad - pointy chin and aged skinny face - tugs at the lad’s jacket to follow the crowd.  In the congestion the few that are happy to bump into each other, possibly only at funerals, offer polite, low laughter. The tail end of the mourners clutters the hallway, then breaks up. The Grey Buns are alone. Likely from one of the seniors' homes that Ripkoph owns, Annabelle thinks, possibly managed by Matilda once. Annabelle catches up to them eleven steps from the door.

“Such a sad thing isn’t it. I knew Mathilda…”

Fifteen minutes later they’re in the archway leading to the family. Three men, seven women, all in black. They’re bussed and hugged. They’re busy shaking hands. A commotion near the photo display causes the flow to stall. The lady closest to the easel, which is covered with photos of Mildred and Frou Frou, is being helped into a chair. Likely the mother. Her low moan silences the crowd. The lineup gathers closer to see what is happening.  A stout younger version of Mildred moves from the receiving line and comforts the woman. One of the older men in the family steps in to greet the visitors. The buzz resumes.

Annabelle ignores the Bun named Joan who is telling them about her gout and wishes they would hurry. She eyes the tables of food to her left, and her shrunken stomach gurgles, demanding attention. She smells the paprika. She sees a rotund gentleman spooning a gob of sour cream onto something on his plate. Coffee and tea urns stand directly across, the sweets are on a table to the left. Ten or twelve people are filling their paper plates. Seeing that the family are all occupied, she darts for the nearest eatables. She reaches to pick up a plate at the head of the table when a hand the size of a baseball mitt cups her frail shoulder.  The voice is deep, respectfully low, almost a whisper:

“The sisters would like to talk to you, madam.”

With hand paused near the stack, she feels a moment of fright, of panic. Where did he come from? Should she run? If she was wearing her black dress she would, but this damn grey one is much too tight. Gripping her small clutch in both hands to stop them from shaking, she turns her head to stare at the largest white shirt she has ever seen. The knot of the somber burgundy tie is at eye level. The man’s girth shades her from the line-up, no one sees her blush. Holding her hat, she raises her head to stare at the messenger. It’s a big head, forget the neck. Pudgy features round out an unexceptional face, except the eyes.  Hazel, green dominant. Nothing mean in there. Annabelle feels such relief she faints.

 

*

Opening her eyes several minutes later, she is staring up at three blurry figures. Something wet and cold is on her forehead. She is lying on what smells like old leather, feels stiff like a couch. A heavy lace-and-tasseled throw covers her lower body.  Her vision focuses the same time the soundtrack in her head clears...

“… Oh, the poor dear, is she okay?”

“…maybe we should call 911?”

“…no, look, she’s alright, she just fainted, heart and lungs are fine, you checked them Suzie?  Here, let’s get her sitting up.”

The sisters materialize. Laurie-Ann has one hand under Annabelle’s shoulder, the other under her arm. Suzie shifts Annabelle's legs to the floor keeping the cover intact. Cynthia reaches over to lift Annabelle's other arm. Together, they prop Annabelle up. Her delicate body gently quakes. Two cushions appear at her side, a gentle hand arranges her retro hat, drops the burgundy clutch on her lap and rubs her upper arm.  Laurie-Ann bends to look in her eyes.

“Relax, Annabelle, we mean you no harm.” Annabelle drops her gaze. Her voice is weak voice.

“How... how do you know my name?”

Suzie tows an overstuffed office chair to the couch and sits down. Cynthia and Laurie-Ann join her, one on each side of Annabelle.  Annabelle looks up at each one. They look so much alike it’s uncanny. Laurie-Ann says:

“We know a little about you, Annabelle.  It appears you know a lot of people who pass away.  Quite a bit more than normal. We’re seeing a pattern.”

On her left, Cynthia touches Annabelle’s knee and says:

“It’s always at the end of the month.”

Suzie leans forward and says:

“It’s easy to see that you are hungry.”

Annabelle begins to sob. Holding her face in her gloved hands, she hangs her head.  Sobs turn to snivels as the sisters remain silent, waiting for Annabelle to regain her composure.  Laurie-Ann hands her several Kleenex from the box on the end table. She dabs at her eyes and with head still bowed, she says:

“Wilbur…that was my husband’s name…was an adorable, sweet, sweet man, but he was a gambler, always chasing the big one. We never saved any money but he made sure our bills were always paid, put food on the table, paid our rent but would spend the extra on the horses. He would win enough to keep the temptation strong. He was too proud to have me work so I never had a pension and with only my old age security and a small widow’s allowance, I just can’t make ends meet…”

Annabelle pauses.  The sisters coo and pat her on the knee all talking at once.

“There, there dear…”

“So sad…”

“It’s a shame…”

Laurie-Ann stands abruptly, and Annabelle feels nervous seeing the creased forehead of the oldest sister. She cringes when Laurie-Anne says:

“This has got to stop.”

Pointing at her younger sister, she says:

“Cynthia, you know what to do.  Suzie, go get Tony.”

Annabelle is alone on the couch, Kleenex bunched in her hands. Watching the flurry of activity, she worries that they may be calling the police even though they seem concerned. She is thinking of how she might escape when all three sisters are back, accompanied by the huge man that brought her to the office.  Laurie-Ann says:

‘C’mon, Annabelle, you’re going with Tony here.”

Shaking lightly, Annabelle resigns herself to her fate and stands weakly in front of the sisters and watches the one named Cynthia hand a piece of paper to the man they call Tony. Laurie-Ann steps closer to Annabelle:

“Tony knows what to do because we already discussed this with him. If my information is correct, the pension checks come around the 26^th of each month. You go with him, Annabelle. He’s going to take you home. But first he’s going to cash the check Cynthia gave him and you two can go grocery shopping. He’ll do this on the 22^nd of each month until you no longer need it.”

Annabelle’s eyes go wide in astonishment at this announcement. She’s not sure what to say. This act of kindness causes water to pool on her lower eyelids. She tries not to blink; she’s tired of shedding tears and feeling sorry for herself. Trying to find the right words, she shakes her head.

“No…no I couldn’t do that. It’s not right and you don’t have to look after an old lady that can’t take care of herself.”

Certain that she would accept their gift, the sisters are at a loss for words, even Laurie-Ann who seldom remains quiet.  Tony on the other hand makes a suggestion.

“I thought you ladies were looking for a greeter for Monday and Tuesday mornings now that Hazel has moved to Ontario?”

The sister’s look at the big man and they are all smiling. They look in question to Annabelle.

Head high, chin out, pride back in place, Annabelle appears to think a moment, but not long.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

Thanks for dropping by The Scribbler. If you enjoyed this short story, there are more available in SHORTS Vol. 1, 2 & 3 available at amazon.com (Or see the right sidebar, or check on Novels above for more details.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next week on the Scribbler you will be able to meet Author Jason Hamilton of Dieppe, New Brunswick

 

 

Feel free to leave a comment below, would love to hear from you!

Funeral Food - Part 1 - an amusing short story by Allan Hudson

I love short stories. Hope you do too.

 

 

 

Sometimes people go hungry. There could be many reasons. This old gal just can't make ends meet.

 

Funeral Food 

Annabelle Ross is as thin as a liar’s promise. She was 73 yesterday. No one made her a cake. No one called her. The only child of an only child, no children, a widow for eight years, she is the last one left. She hasn’t eaten since Thursday, two days ago. Her old age security check only comes on Monday and there is nothing in her cupboards. She once went to a food bank, and once was enough.  There have been no funerals to attend. At least until today.

Her stomach rumbles when she imagines the platters of triangular sandwiches, wedges of enchantment. The bread is soft and fresh, the fillings moist and delicious, sometimes lobster salad if the deceased was affluent. Enormous trays of sweets will be evenly spaced about the tables.  Mouthwatering chocolate and certainly the brown squares with the miniature marshmallows.  The visions cause dizziness and she grasps the table edge while her stomach grumbles. For a moment she rests her tiny head on the creased newspaper spread out on the table. It’s open to the obituaries, yesterday’s edition.

Strands of hair fall from behind her ears where the thin white tresses are normally tucked. The ends that fall to her neck retain a touch of their girlish curl. Time and need have not dulled her eyes the way they have paled her delicate skin. Age spots appear along her brow. Her narrow face however is blessed with kind features. There is no despair in her temperament. Annabelle is not a quitter. Sitting up she looks around her box-like bachelorette, wondering what she might wear. First she has to decide which of the three funerals she will attend. If she’s lucky, she might make it a double header. 

Of the eleven death notices, there are only three possibilities. The photos of the departed slated for burial today are circled in dark pencil. Two men and a woman. The lady is quite plump. Teeth and gums are spread in a grin that depicts pain. There is a rude moustache penciled onto her upper lip. Annabelle had a run-in with the woman six years ago when the lady, Mildred Malarenko, was manager at the Ripkoph Senior's Complex. Annabelle's ceiling leaked every time it rained and she’d complained for over two months. She finally told Mildred that she would not pay her rent until the leak was fixed.   She was given an eviction notice and two weeks to move. Annabelle reminded Mildred of the marijuana fumes that came from her closed office doors some evenings. The notice was changed to two months and a van provided for the move.

The red numerals of the digital clock on the cupboard of the kitchenette show 06:44. Rays of an early sun yellow the top pane of her small window. She is happy there is no rain. Glancing back at the obits she deems this one a B+ on her listing system. It’s scheduled for 10 a.m. and she has lots of time, The Sisters Funeral Parlour is only three quarters of a mile, the newer staff are not familiar with her yet and best of all, the Ukrainians love to overfeed everybody. The negatives? Annabelle’s deep dislike for the dead woman, and one of the sisters might be working. Laurie-Ann, the oldest, gave her a hard time two months ago and asked her to leave. She thinks Suzie, the light-haired one, knows but doesn’t say anything. Cynthia, the one that smiles a lot, packed her a baggie once and gave it to her when she escorted her out. The sisters rarely work weekends, so it should be safe.

The man at the bottom of the second column has a heavily penciled circle looped around his heavily metaled face. He has one name, Booger. There are enough piercings on nose, ears, eyebrows, lips and she’s guessing nipples, crotch and navel that The River Styx Point of Departure & Crematorium probably used a magnet to lift him into his casket. She hated going there. There is always loud music. Their billboards are all over the city suggesting your final moments “should not be somber but a celebration”.  At present they are offering a free barbeque with each cremation. The upside is that most of the patrons pay her little attention. The staff are usually high or too busy to bother with an old lady. The food though. Oh the food.  The RSPD&C cater to crowds that usually have the munchies. Lots of chocolate, never any veggies, humongous bowls of potato chips, small lakes of salsa and tangy dips, stacks of Ritz crackers, Mr. Freezees, cakes, cookies… She’d go today mainly for her dessert. It’s at eleven and not too far from Sisters. Another B+.

Third column, second from the top, has only one circle softly framing the tender face of Aldous Von Gluck, also 73, four daughters, seven great-granddaughters and one great-great-grandson, Aldous Von Gluck-Galloway. The elderly German has a high forehead and wide face. A toothy smile hides the eyes. The face is contorted in happiness as he looks up at the photographer. In his arms is an infant no more than a week or two old. One can only assume it is his namesake. Annabel wishes she had known him.  She can see how much he loves the child and she wonders what that must be like. Brushing a loose strand from her cheek, she tucks it behind her ear while she checks the details.

Young’s Funeral Parlor is older than she is and in much better condition. It’s located downtown behind the post office. Annabelle lives in the east end, three point four miles away, she’d have to take a bus. Pushing herself away from the table, she rises gingerly, wrinkling her nose. The wet garbage is starting to ripen, the fish she had on Thursday, her last meal.  She hates to take it out, the small green bag is only half full.   It smells even worse as she approaches the kitchenette. The odor comes from under the sink. Yuck!

While she removes the bag from the white plastic basket -- a yard sale treasure plastered with NHL stickers -- she notices the tomato sauce stain on the hem of her black wool skirt. She can’t do a wash until her check comes. She’ll have to wear the gray dress, even though it’s too tight at the waist. Setting the green bag, half full of tea bags, by the door, she wraps her housecoat tighter, arms cradled across her chest.  She glances at the clock again. 07: 22.

Time for a tea. She’ll get ready after. She needs to time her arrival to the beginning of the service, when it is the fullest and she goes unnoticed. She rises and lifts the beleaguered kettle to fill its whistle with tap water. While doing so she wonders which scarf might be appropriate today.

 

*

Annabelle is too early. Thirty feet from the sidewalk there are two men off to the side of the entrance smoking, a last-minute fix. “Damn,” she mutters while ducking behind a glistening SUV in the funeral parlor’s parking lot. The back windows are tinted and hide her completely. Catching her image in the mirrored surface, she sees her hat's askew. A burgundy pill box, something a Kennedy might wear. Tipped forward too much; she made her bun in the back a bit high. She deems it “rakish” if low on her forehead, not suitable for an elderly lady, my goodness.  Intending to re-pin it, she is distracted by the two men moving to the main door. She rushes forward as well. The door is large, made of aged oak and thick beveled glass, too heavy for her but it closes slowly and she slips inside.

She catches up to the larger man. He’s slower than his mate by 25 or 30 kilos. She closes in behind him, squinting her nose at the smell of cigarette. She keeps to his right, hopes no one will see her, the offices are on the opposite side.  They’re in the main lobby.  Wide doors face them left and right. The first man opens one, enters. A faint aroma of petals stirs when Annabelle and the rotund man follow close behind.  She remains in big man’s shadow to the end of the last pew where she spies an empty spot.  Glancing discreetly towards the back, she doesn’t recognize the part-time staff. She shuffles into the padded seat. A young boy steps closer to a microphone near the piano.

The opening chords of “Ave Maria” waft from the front right corner. The notes are as polished as the gleaming sides of the Yamaha upright.  Beulah Bogdonovitch, the weekend pianist, is far better than that cranky old Mr. Dodge, thinks Annabelle. His version of Elton John’s Candle in the Wind is very good though. Behind the pulpit on the left, the pastor’s glossy pate and bright blue sports coat catch her eye, she deems him the worst dresser of the lot. He'll have half the congregation in tears five minutes into his benediction. She doesn’t recognize anyone else.

Annabelle forgets her hunger as the lad up front silences everyone with his rendition of Gounod’s “Hail Mary.” Anabelle closes her eyes; it's her favorite funeral song. The melody lingers long after the boy stops singing. The murmur of approval morphs into the hushed voice of Pastor Delahunt, a voice which rises when he points out the virtues of the deceased while gesturing open palmed towards the urn shaped like a poodle.

He hesitates. Withdrawing the white square from his breast pocket, he clamps it to his mouth. He twists away from the row “reserved for family” and bends from his waist as if to cough. The crowd sits straighter.  Not many seconds of silence pass before the hushed shuffle begins.  To Annabelle it looks like the man is trying not to laugh. What she or the crowd can’t see is that he really wants to cry. The attorney for the estate of Ms. Malarenko settled financial matters yesterday. Frou-Frou inherits everything, the house and cottage as well. The family is next in line.  Even the pastor is in on a wager of how long the dog will live.

Biting his lower lip, he regains his poise. He apologizes for his “hay fever” and continues:

“…the perils of spring. And like Mildred, whose life was only beginning to bloom…”


To be continued............. read the rest of the story HERE.

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