A blast furnace,
A sandwich press,
A heat like molten glass.
Clutch the water bottle,
like a supplicant prays
at mass;
While sweat trickles
between my breasts
and down my ass.
Friday, July 5
Wednesday, July 3
Escape
Life has been hectic the last few weeks and I've been hard at work on a couple of stories, juggling them around and seeing what happens. As a result I don't have any flash fiction offerings but I'll leave you with this.
Plink, plink. Squinting into the brightness of the ceiling light, I woke slowly. Plink, Plink again like heavy raindrops on glass. It was pitch black outside, the clock rolled over to 12:00; the Witching Hour. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and emerged from the mass of pillows like a linen monster. Plink. That was definitely not raindrops. I crept to the glass door that led out to a small balcony; a heavy brass candlestick was cool in my hands. On the other side of the glass, her blue eyes wild, chest heaving, was Simone. She looked like a crazed escaped animal. Maybe she was.
"Let me in, Ahsha." It didn’t take a board certified therapist to tell me she was angry.
"Don't hurt me." I murmured, hands shaking, happy to see her but hesitating at the brass lock. If our places had been reversed, I wouldn't let me in either; not after what I had done.
Simone climbed in as soon as I tugged the door free of its catch, shoving me aside. "What the hell, Ahsha." she hissed, wrapping her arms tight around her as though she were afraid her insides would fall out; she flinched away when I reached for her. "No. No. You don't get that privilege anymore." she'd hurried across the room, pushing a steamer trunk away from the door that connected our bedrooms; her face was twisted with an expression I could not read. She hadn't known that I blocked that door and shut her out.
Like a thief in the night, Simone crept through her bedroom, throwing a few items of clothing and the semi-precious jewellery that had been her sixteenth birthday gift, all into a blanket and wrapped it up, tucking it under her arm. Back in my room, she threw my jacket at me and ran back to the balcony. "You're going to help me get out of here."
***
Even half a house and one story of distance hadn’t muted my mother’s grief and rage, neither did the feather duvet and six pillows I put over my head and stuffed into my ears. The part of me that felt guilty gave way to my annoyance and eventually I fell asleep.
Plink, plink. Squinting into the brightness of the ceiling light, I woke slowly. Plink, Plink again like heavy raindrops on glass. It was pitch black outside, the clock rolled over to 12:00; the Witching Hour. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and emerged from the mass of pillows like a linen monster. Plink. That was definitely not raindrops. I crept to the glass door that led out to a small balcony; a heavy brass candlestick was cool in my hands. On the other side of the glass, her blue eyes wild, chest heaving, was Simone. She looked like a crazed escaped animal. Maybe she was.
"Let me in, Ahsha." It didn’t take a board certified therapist to tell me she was angry.
"Don't hurt me." I murmured, hands shaking, happy to see her but hesitating at the brass lock. If our places had been reversed, I wouldn't let me in either; not after what I had done.
Simone climbed in as soon as I tugged the door free of its catch, shoving me aside. "What the hell, Ahsha." she hissed, wrapping her arms tight around her as though she were afraid her insides would fall out; she flinched away when I reached for her. "No. No. You don't get that privilege anymore." she'd hurried across the room, pushing a steamer trunk away from the door that connected our bedrooms; her face was twisted with an expression I could not read. She hadn't known that I blocked that door and shut her out.
Like a thief in the night, Simone crept through her bedroom, throwing a few items of clothing and the semi-precious jewellery that had been her sixteenth birthday gift, all into a blanket and wrapped it up, tucking it under her arm. Back in my room, she threw my jacket at me and ran back to the balcony. "You're going to help me get out of here."
Friday, June 7
I never liked the sea
Another old post from the 12 Days of Christmas Blog Hop. The theme was gifts and day eight was 'sea'.
I never liked the sea.
The roar of the storms, the stench of the water, and the breathtaking cold as it struck my skin and bit into my bones. Everyone here loved the sea, their harsh mistress, but me.
Give me the warm days along softer shores with white sand silken between my toes; the lap of the waves, caressing the earth and carrying it back home with them in an endless circle of mild tides; our beautiful lake, great in size and name.
You don’t understand, the others have told me, the gifts of the abundant sea. She gives us our food and trade; our very livelihoods. But be gentle with her for what she gives, she also takes away. I never argued because they’re right; I don’t understand.
On the pebbled shore, her song roared in my ears and the gulls cried out their harmonies. I don’t understand you, I shouted in my mind, squinting into the stinging winds. You’re so large, so vast – so much.
The waves, icy cold, washed over my bare feet. Driftwood, rocks and shell fragments littered the beach behind me. I’m trying, I wanted to scream into the sky, but I missed the shores of home so very much.
Why did I ever come here?
Wet sunlight shone on the driftwood log and I sat to warm myself. Sharp pain shot through the toes I’d burrowed into gravely sand and I set to work extracting the offender.
A small box with sharp rusted edges and nestled within, a pearl on a tarnished chain. The pearl pulsed warmly in my palm and the warm softness of lost days wound around me. I smiled shyly at the water, at the sky, for my gift.
She knew my heart and I didn’t need to understand.
Pearl
I never liked the sea.
The roar of the storms, the stench of the water, and the breathtaking cold as it struck my skin and bit into my bones. Everyone here loved the sea, their harsh mistress, but me.
Give me the warm days along softer shores with white sand silken between my toes; the lap of the waves, caressing the earth and carrying it back home with them in an endless circle of mild tides; our beautiful lake, great in size and name.
You don’t understand, the others have told me, the gifts of the abundant sea. She gives us our food and trade; our very livelihoods. But be gentle with her for what she gives, she also takes away. I never argued because they’re right; I don’t understand.
On the pebbled shore, her song roared in my ears and the gulls cried out their harmonies. I don’t understand you, I shouted in my mind, squinting into the stinging winds. You’re so large, so vast – so much.
The waves, icy cold, washed over my bare feet. Driftwood, rocks and shell fragments littered the beach behind me. I’m trying, I wanted to scream into the sky, but I missed the shores of home so very much.
Why did I ever come here?
Wet sunlight shone on the driftwood log and I sat to warm myself. Sharp pain shot through the toes I’d burrowed into gravely sand and I set to work extracting the offender.
A small box with sharp rusted edges and nestled within, a pearl on a tarnished chain. The pearl pulsed warmly in my palm and the warm softness of lost days wound around me. I smiled shyly at the water, at the sky, for my gift.
She knew my heart and I didn’t need to understand.
Eastern Passage, Nova Scotia (c) 2011-2013 Chris Fitzner
Friday, May 24
All trimmed up with lace
New material is a little thin lately as I've been ill or working on things I can't post up here quite yet. But I will share with you (from my old blog) a piece of 'flash' (poem, really) that I entered into a Love Bites flash fiction collection.
The Chase
Moth to a flame and I’m burning again,
Candied hearts and roses,
from all the wrong men.
What are you doing, girl,
and what is it for,
tromping around town
like some two dollar whore.
Addicted to sex, you see,
the thrill and the chase,
the silks and the satins,
all trimmed up with lace.
I don’t ask for more and
don’t dare pin me down.
Love bites and it’s dangerous;
if I don’t swim, I’ll drown.
The Chase
Moth to a flame and I’m burning again,
Candied hearts and roses,
from all the wrong men.
What are you doing, girl,
and what is it for,
tromping around town
like some two dollar whore.
Addicted to sex, you see,
the thrill and the chase,
the silks and the satins,
all trimmed up with lace.
I don’t ask for more and
don’t dare pin me down.
Love bites and it’s dangerous;
if I don’t swim, I’ll drown.
Thursday, May 16
An introduction, of sorts
If you've not followed my previous blog or know me from social media, you may be asking yourself (or not) 'Who the hell is Chris Fitzner?'. I could be facetious and simply reply: Chris Fitzner is me. But that's not funny nor is it helpful.
'Chris Fitzner' is my pen name, created from parts of my actual names (I have a confusing assortment of legal and married names). I am an early thirty-something presently living in Atlantic Canada (Nova Scotia, to be more precise), though not Canadian by birth. Sometime in the early 1980s, I popped into being on a military base in the southern United States and then grew up in lovely southern Michigan. The arts have always been in my blood and family encouraged it. I could read by the age of three and chapter books by grade one, which may have been around the time I began craving to tell my own stories.
Random fact: I don't like being read to and never have. It may be why I wanted to learn to read so early.
The library was (and still is) one of my favourite places on earth and few things overwhelm me more than a room stacked to the rafters with books.
Life pulled me in different directions, I love to sketch and paint as well and do crafts (thanks to my amazing grandmother, who is an incredible talent in her own right). Music became my passion later and I sang and played the flute throughout the teenage years. I still held onto the tiny kernel of the writing dream, stories still pulsed through my blood but the words did not come.
Paint and canvas covered the twenties while still voraciously reading novels, histories, biographies. I fell in love, I moved to another country and struggled with all of the things that come when you've left everything you had ever known behind.
Anxiety and depression have been a common theme in my life since early puberty and I kind of figured they were here to stay when they didn't vanish after the hormonal surge of my teenage years. They're the things that lock me up tight in my own mind and nothing happens; no writing, no painting (no singing, no reading). Nothing. After a lot of work (and still constant work), some tweaking of medications and a couple of rounds of therapy, I'm in the best mental health of my life and I'm here, learning, breathing, writing.
I want to tell you stories and I hope you'll let me.
'Chris Fitzner' is my pen name, created from parts of my actual names (I have a confusing assortment of legal and married names). I am an early thirty-something presently living in Atlantic Canada (Nova Scotia, to be more precise), though not Canadian by birth. Sometime in the early 1980s, I popped into being on a military base in the southern United States and then grew up in lovely southern Michigan. The arts have always been in my blood and family encouraged it. I could read by the age of three and chapter books by grade one, which may have been around the time I began craving to tell my own stories.
Random fact: I don't like being read to and never have. It may be why I wanted to learn to read so early.
The library was (and still is) one of my favourite places on earth and few things overwhelm me more than a room stacked to the rafters with books.
Life pulled me in different directions, I love to sketch and paint as well and do crafts (thanks to my amazing grandmother, who is an incredible talent in her own right). Music became my passion later and I sang and played the flute throughout the teenage years. I still held onto the tiny kernel of the writing dream, stories still pulsed through my blood but the words did not come.
Paint and canvas covered the twenties while still voraciously reading novels, histories, biographies. I fell in love, I moved to another country and struggled with all of the things that come when you've left everything you had ever known behind.
Anxiety and depression have been a common theme in my life since early puberty and I kind of figured they were here to stay when they didn't vanish after the hormonal surge of my teenage years. They're the things that lock me up tight in my own mind and nothing happens; no writing, no painting (no singing, no reading). Nothing. After a lot of work (and still constant work), some tweaking of medications and a couple of rounds of therapy, I'm in the best mental health of my life and I'm here, learning, breathing, writing.
I want to tell you stories and I hope you'll let me.
Monday, May 13
Gimmie, Gimmie
Written for the Dark Fairy Queen Writerly Bridal Shower collection and originally posted to my former wordpress blog.
(based on a true story
)
With wet, freshly washed brown hair, soft pink pajamas, her feet tucked underneath her on the couch, Marie was perfect and Ricky’s heart was all a ‘flutter in his chest. He tore his eyes away from his lady love, who was absently flipping through the channels on the television. Ricky stuffed his clammy hands into his pockets, fingertips brushing the smooth surface of the ring box.
The ring box. The ring. A simple, delicate solitaire set into a band of white gold and diamonds. The symbol of the many months Ricky had been saving for the perfect ring to ask the perfect girl the Ultimate Question: Marie, will you marry me?
Marie had been expecting it for weeks; at the fancy dinner for her birthday in the spring, during the weekend trip they took last month and Ricky knew she was getting frustrated. For all of their years together, didn’t he want to marry her? He did, of course he did, but he didn’t want to ask when she might have expected it, when they were all dressed up to go out, with the promise of a special night ahead. Ricky loved her best right now; comfortable, unadorned, natural and quietly fussing with her hair. It was time.
The weather was cool for early summer and his breath made a circle of fog on the sliding glass door. Ricky wanted to propose under the stars, such as they were with city lights to obscure them. Taking a deep breath, he slid the door open and wandered nonchalantly out onto the balcony.
“Honey? Come look at the stars with me.” He called through the open door, trying to keep his voice casual. The minute or two that passed before Marie appeared beside him felt like forever, like that long and agonizing lead-up to Christmas Day when he was a child. She slipped his arm through his, her floral scented shampoo filled his nose. Ricky’s heart jumped into his throat.
“I don’t see any stars, Ricky.” her neck craned upward and squinting into the night sky. “Are you sure it wasn’t a plane going by?”
Ricky slid the box from his pocket slowly while Marie was distracted. A flip of his thumb and he slipped the ring from the box and casually from his pocket.
When Marie looked back, Ricky was down on one knee, holding a ring that sparkled even in the dim balcony lights.
“Gimmie!” Marie made a grab at the ring before Ricky could speak, knocking it from his clammy fingers.
They both cried out, frozen in place, watching the ring sail towards the edge of the railing. A faint clink of metal on metal and it clattered to the concrete, dangerously close to the open space beneath the railing. Ricky dove to his knees to scoop up the ring, popping back up in front of Marie, breathless but triumphant.
An awkward moment of silence, finally broken by Marie’s nervous giggle and then Ricky was laughing too. She held out her hand and Ricky slipped the ring on her finger, glinting and shining, a perfect fit for his perfect girl.
“So, that’s a yes, then?” he smiled and Marie whispered ‘yes’, her own smile could have lit up the sky. Taking Marie’s hands in his, Ricky pulled here against him and leaned in to seal the moment with a kiss.
(based on a true story
)
Gimmie, Gimmie
With wet, freshly washed brown hair, soft pink pajamas, her feet tucked underneath her on the couch, Marie was perfect and Ricky’s heart was all a ‘flutter in his chest. He tore his eyes away from his lady love, who was absently flipping through the channels on the television. Ricky stuffed his clammy hands into his pockets, fingertips brushing the smooth surface of the ring box.
The ring box. The ring. A simple, delicate solitaire set into a band of white gold and diamonds. The symbol of the many months Ricky had been saving for the perfect ring to ask the perfect girl the Ultimate Question: Marie, will you marry me?
Marie had been expecting it for weeks; at the fancy dinner for her birthday in the spring, during the weekend trip they took last month and Ricky knew she was getting frustrated. For all of their years together, didn’t he want to marry her? He did, of course he did, but he didn’t want to ask when she might have expected it, when they were all dressed up to go out, with the promise of a special night ahead. Ricky loved her best right now; comfortable, unadorned, natural and quietly fussing with her hair. It was time.
The weather was cool for early summer and his breath made a circle of fog on the sliding glass door. Ricky wanted to propose under the stars, such as they were with city lights to obscure them. Taking a deep breath, he slid the door open and wandered nonchalantly out onto the balcony.
“Honey? Come look at the stars with me.” He called through the open door, trying to keep his voice casual. The minute or two that passed before Marie appeared beside him felt like forever, like that long and agonizing lead-up to Christmas Day when he was a child. She slipped his arm through his, her floral scented shampoo filled his nose. Ricky’s heart jumped into his throat.
“I don’t see any stars, Ricky.” her neck craned upward and squinting into the night sky. “Are you sure it wasn’t a plane going by?”
Ricky slid the box from his pocket slowly while Marie was distracted. A flip of his thumb and he slipped the ring from the box and casually from his pocket.
When Marie looked back, Ricky was down on one knee, holding a ring that sparkled even in the dim balcony lights.
“Gimmie!” Marie made a grab at the ring before Ricky could speak, knocking it from his clammy fingers.
They both cried out, frozen in place, watching the ring sail towards the edge of the railing. A faint clink of metal on metal and it clattered to the concrete, dangerously close to the open space beneath the railing. Ricky dove to his knees to scoop up the ring, popping back up in front of Marie, breathless but triumphant.
An awkward moment of silence, finally broken by Marie’s nervous giggle and then Ricky was laughing too. She held out her hand and Ricky slipped the ring on her finger, glinting and shining, a perfect fit for his perfect girl.
“So, that’s a yes, then?” he smiled and Marie whispered ‘yes’, her own smile could have lit up the sky. Taking Marie’s hands in his, Ricky pulled here against him and leaned in to seal the moment with a kiss.
Wednesday, May 8
Accept, Configure
To celebrate a new beginning with my new blog, I present a new flash fiction piece for your consideration :) It was inspired by health and technology news I heard on the BBC World Service yesterday and naturally my writer's brain had to take that inch and run six miles with it.
It may become a series.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Tap, tap, slide, type, tap -
accept!
A smile, wide with satisfaction, crept across Simone's face as she clicked a button and locked her phone. She would investigate her new 'app' purchase once she was off the city bus and in the comfort of her living room. There were prying eyes and nosy minds on transit and she didn't need any social commentary on The Mood Minder that she was eager to set up.
Ding! the next stop was hers and Simone all but flew the last half a block and two flights of stairs into her tired looking but comfortable apartment. Fwump onto the sad sofa, old springs protesting under her weight. Another slide and a tap and then the soothing blue screen of The Mood Minder.
Developed computer professionals with too-thick coke bottle glasses in conjunction with medical professionals with too-thin receding hair lines, The Mood Minder was programmed to interface with a tiny chip placed in the body, usually in the wrist, detecting the patient's heart rate and, somehow, one or two prevailing moods. The tracked data would be stored until a predetermined time (or when the patient was near a wi-fi connection) and then it would be transmitted to the primary physician (in Simone's case, a therapist or three). It sounded creepy and Simone's mother had told her as much, rambling on and on about 'the mark of the Beast' and other such Biblical nonsense. Simone respected her mother and the Bible but she was just too excited to try out The Mood Minder to take either seriously. Finally, something to help keep her honest in her sessions!
She absently scrolled through menus and options, setting up the application the way Dr. Selznik had instructed. Her heart sank and the too familiar anxiety beat its wings against her ribs. It was her mother's fault that Simone had a line up of therapists in the first place. Simone spared a glance at the fading news clipping pinned to the old wall paneling, her twelve year old self staring back at her, haunted, in black and white and only one of dozens of children pulled from the religious commune of the mad man her mother had fallen in love with.
The mad man that her mother tried to marry her off to as soon as Simone had had her 'first blood'.
The same mad man who had not waited for a wedding night to thrust himself into her life in the most painful and intimate of ways.
Simone wiped away the tears, watched The Mood Minder record her sadness and anxiety; could it see her tears somehow?
Her mother had railed against every therapist Simone had ever seen, every treatment plan she had ever tried, mocked her fear and scorned the night terrors. Though she had been forced back into regular society and learned to function within it (only to get her children out of foster care, she claimed), Simone's mother had never seen the deep wrong in the man she had followed; the mad man Simone had dubbed him but her mother called him the guru. So Simone often felt compelled to lie; to protect her mother and to protect herself even though lying did more harm than good. But with the chip and the 'app', she wouldn't be able to hide from the therapists anymore; they'd have proof that she was lying.
But what if it went haywire, started sending false data? What if 'they' came to take me away and what if it got her arrested?
It always came back to her. Always.
She tapped 'configure', scratched absently at the healing incision on her wrist.
Simone was willing to take those risks
It may become a series.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Accept, Configure
accept!
A smile, wide with satisfaction, crept across Simone's face as she clicked a button and locked her phone. She would investigate her new 'app' purchase once she was off the city bus and in the comfort of her living room. There were prying eyes and nosy minds on transit and she didn't need any social commentary on The Mood Minder that she was eager to set up.
Ding! the next stop was hers and Simone all but flew the last half a block and two flights of stairs into her tired looking but comfortable apartment. Fwump onto the sad sofa, old springs protesting under her weight. Another slide and a tap and then the soothing blue screen of The Mood Minder.
Developed computer professionals with too-thick coke bottle glasses in conjunction with medical professionals with too-thin receding hair lines, The Mood Minder was programmed to interface with a tiny chip placed in the body, usually in the wrist, detecting the patient's heart rate and, somehow, one or two prevailing moods. The tracked data would be stored until a predetermined time (or when the patient was near a wi-fi connection) and then it would be transmitted to the primary physician (in Simone's case, a therapist or three). It sounded creepy and Simone's mother had told her as much, rambling on and on about 'the mark of the Beast' and other such Biblical nonsense. Simone respected her mother and the Bible but she was just too excited to try out The Mood Minder to take either seriously. Finally, something to help keep her honest in her sessions!
She absently scrolled through menus and options, setting up the application the way Dr. Selznik had instructed. Her heart sank and the too familiar anxiety beat its wings against her ribs. It was her mother's fault that Simone had a line up of therapists in the first place. Simone spared a glance at the fading news clipping pinned to the old wall paneling, her twelve year old self staring back at her, haunted, in black and white and only one of dozens of children pulled from the religious commune of the mad man her mother had fallen in love with.
The mad man that her mother tried to marry her off to as soon as Simone had had her 'first blood'.
The same mad man who had not waited for a wedding night to thrust himself into her life in the most painful and intimate of ways.
Simone wiped away the tears, watched The Mood Minder record her sadness and anxiety; could it see her tears somehow?
Her mother had railed against every therapist Simone had ever seen, every treatment plan she had ever tried, mocked her fear and scorned the night terrors. Though she had been forced back into regular society and learned to function within it (only to get her children out of foster care, she claimed), Simone's mother had never seen the deep wrong in the man she had followed; the mad man Simone had dubbed him but her mother called him the guru. So Simone often felt compelled to lie; to protect her mother and to protect herself even though lying did more harm than good. But with the chip and the 'app', she wouldn't be able to hide from the therapists anymore; they'd have proof that she was lying.
But what if it went haywire, started sending false data? What if 'they' came to take me away and what if it got her arrested?
It always came back to her. Always.
She tapped 'configure', scratched absently at the healing incision on her wrist.
Simone was willing to take those risks
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