Regular

“Hey, Barkeep, where’s my cold one?” I recognized the voice even without turning around. Switching the Oasis on, I let the pink mixture blend for 30 seconds, poured the daiquiris into the sugar rimmed Cyclones, added a lime to each and placed them on the service bar on top of the chit.

“Hey Larry, how was your shift?” Wearing my best smile I slid a pint of 50 in front of him.

“Looong and over.” He boomed, the cold mug to his lips before finishing the sentence. One of my regulars, Larry was a shift worker at the nearby plastics manufacturer. I saw him every night at 11:15 when he was working afternoons and every afternoon at four when he worked mornings.

“Are you gonna be eating today Lare?” I asked, waving a menu, figuring he would pass as he usually did.

“Yeah, I’ll take a menu and why don’t you pour us a coupla shots – your pick. Jeff’s coming today.” His gaze hugged every inch of my body, making me wish I hadn't forgotten my sweater.

“I can’t Larry. You know Joe’s new rule, we can’t drink during shift even if the customer is buying. Besides, I’ve got class tonight.” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. Great, he had his kid today.

“Sure? Joe’s not gonna hear it from me. C’mon, pour us two Lemon Drops. I wanna celebrate shiftend! Don’t let me drink alone.” There was the familiar desperation in his voice. Every single night this guy had something to celebrate.

“Why don’t you grab a bite? What time is Jeff getting dropped off?” His ex-wife usually brought the ten-year old straight to the bar after school. Anger gripped my shoulders thinking about these two being allowed to have a child.

“Soon, he'll be here soon. I’ll grab something when he gets here.” Then laughing conspiratorially leaned over the bar. “I wanna down a couple before he gets here though.”

I couldn’t wait to be done school. This job wasn’t worth it some nights. My lighthearted facade was wearing thin with this guy.

“No problem Larry, but you know I’m not gonna keep serving you when Jeff gets here. Remember what happened last time. You locked him out of the house and passed out. He walked back here and had to stay at Sam’s. It’s not right, a ten year old, wandering the streets at midnite.” I tried to keep my voice steady but I could hear it rising, rich with indignation.

He grabbed an olive from my garnish tray, his yellow fingernails black rimmed; then popping it into his mouth, he chewed hungrily. He lifted his mug and drained the last half of his beer, not even giving the condensation a chance to wet the bar.

I turned my back, pretending to read one of my chits. Disgusting, I thought. But pointing out this vulgarity would only encourage him to treat the garnish tray as a buffet later on when he was drunk.

“Really? Are you gonna be like that now too? First Sam. Now you? Whatthafuckman?” He slammed his mug on the bar. Then audibly dislodging the phlegm in his throat, he grabbed his cigarettes. Automatically, I held my lighter to his smoke, having to control my urge to aim elsewhere.

“Thanks.” He muttered.

I reluctantly poured him a Lemon Drop. He signalled to his empty mug and I was forced to pour him another draft too.

At least I wouldn’t be around to witness the sloppy mess he would become later. When it was just him, I could care less. On those nights, I stuffed him into a cab and gave the driver his address. But these shifts, when it was his turn to take care of the poor kid who called him Dad: serving him on these occassions made me sick. Made me want to call Children’s Aid.

This is my entry for The Red Writing Hood prompt "someone who really gets under your skin." Constructive criticism is welcome.

Second class citizen

John looked at the brown and gold box on the counter. Tim Hortons. His mouth watered at the thought of the fluffy pink icing. They were not for him. He knew this. They were never for him. Still, he imagined biting into one.
The front door opened and his foster-sister ran in.


"Mama, did you get me the Double Strawberry Dips?"
"Yes, sweetie, the pink ones." replied Janice.


"With the sprinkles? Last time they didn't have sprinkles."


"I made sure." John's foster mother looked at him and gestured to the kitchen.


He'd been sidetracked by the donuts. Quickly he set to work cleaning up the morning dishes as  he did every day after school.


"Can I eat one now?" Claire asked jumping up and down, her pink tutu swishing in tandem.


Janice opened the box and cut one in half. She handed it to Claire. John's stomach rumbled. The ten year old busied himself rinsing the cereal bowls just the way his foster mother liked, before stacking them into the dishwasher, forcing himself not to look at the open box.


"We'll save this half for after dinner, okay?"


"What about the other two Mama? Can Johnny have one?" Claire always asked on donut days. John had liked the six year old immediately. In the little over a year since he'd been placed with Janice, Claire was the only bright spot; she was nothing like her mother.


"No honey, we don't want John to get cavities. You know that. He didn't go to the dentist like  you always have." Her voice light and airy for Claire's sake. John flinched remembering the quick hard slap he'd received the week before when she caught him eating a piece of Claire's Double Pink Dip. 


"You little thief!" She'd accused. Her ring had hit the bone on the side of his face, and he'd yelped out. He tried to explain through the tears that Claire had given it to him but Janice gripped his shoulder cutting him off.


"I have done enough for you -do you hear me?" He tried not to blink away her angry spit that had landed in his right eye.


"You're not to touch anything that doesn't belong to you while you're here." Her ice blue eyes narrowed and pierced through her frameless glasses. He'd never felt so frightened of a woman in his life.


This was the third foster home he'd been sent to since his own mother had been arrested. "Nobody wants boys." He'd overheard Joy, his social worker confide to someone on the phone. She was looking out the window when he came back from the washroom; didn't hear him walk in.
That was right before he came to Janice's, right about the time he'd decided to be on his best behaviour moving forward.


"You'll brush your teeth won't you Johnny?" Claire wasn't letting up.


Janice walked to the fridge, ignoring the girl. She grabbed a package of chicken, a small brick of cheese and the remaining half head of Iceberg. She reached into the cupboard under the sink and grabbed a thick wooden cutting board.
On Tuesdays they always ate Chicken tacos with avocados. And Claire and Janice ate Double Pink Dips for dessert.




This is my entry for the Red Dress Clubs picture prompt of this donut. It is a work of fiction pulled out of the rough draft novel I completed for National Novel Writing Month back in November. If you're interested in reading a few other very rough excerpts go here and here. Sorry for any inconsistencies - I'm still working out the details, believe me, I have a lot of work to do!

Red writing hood - The monster never caught

I'm participating in a writing meme from The Red Dress Club. This is a work of fiction. The prompt was to write a character sketch of a villain. I think my piece is a little long.

The invitation to his foster mother's 100th birthday lay on the kitchen table and John had to restrain from crumpling and tossing it. Of course the old witch had outlived everybody - the wicked usually do. Although decades had passed and John was now director of his city's children's aide society and a father of two almost grown boys, not a day went by without remembering the abuses he suffered in that house under her rule.

Today he was recalling one summer day when he was 12 and cooped up in the house looking after four toddlers and his foster brother and sister. He could see some of his pals riding their bikes in the street out front and yearned to be with them, wind in his hair, away from the stifling prison of a home he had grown to hate.

The four toddlers were the kids that made up the "daycare" his foster mother supposedly ran. Little did the kids' parents know that a twelve year old boy was taking care of them while Janice Taggart his foster mother was out selling her Avon beauty products.

At almost noon while he was preparing the children's lunches - a box of Kraft Dinner again - the phone rang. Instructing his six-year-old foster sister Tanya to watch the boiling water, he ran to grab the phone and then wished he hadn't when he heard his foster mother's voice. It was a gruff no-nonsense kind of voice. One that always made John cower because he knew all too well what she was capable of. One wrong peep from any of them and she was quick to whack you with whatever was in her reach.

I forgot to tell you about Joel's earache medication. It's up in the cupboard where the dishes are. Give him a teaspoon full after he eats lunch. Do you understand? Put the phone down and go find the medication and then get back on and tell me you saw it.

John put down the phone, pushed a chair over to the cupboard and saw a small glass medicine bottle. He came back and shakily affirmed that he had found it. Gotta go and she hung up.

Later that day after the daycare kids had been picked up Janice entered the room John shared with his little brother. Is this the medicine you gave Joel? John looked up from his sketchpad - a rare gift from Janice who had surprisingly encouraged his artistic side. He nodded. And then he couldn't explain what happened next. She was on top of him hitting him with the small hard glass bottle, at first on his back and then his head. All the while she was was crying and screeching unintellible things. You stupid little boy, you ungrateful little sissy, God didn't give you the brains of a worm you ungrateful little wormhole. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!

As John rolled around on the bed covering his head trying to fend off her blows, it dawned on him that it must have been the wrong medicine. She then pinned him down, a knee on each of his arms, her madness spilling out of her, drool hitting his forehead. Her fists rained down on his face. The pain was threatening his sense of consciousness and he thought he might pass out or die.

He remembered thinking that she was pretty five years earlier when he had first come to live there. She had shoulder length blonde hair, small blue eyes, a thin little mouth and always dressed well. Her glasses were the frameless kind and together she had a look of pleasant intelligence. But few people knew about the monster that lurked within her. A monster strong and swift with physical retribution for the tiniest infraction. She saved the bloodiest beatings for the summer time when menacing teachers couldn't nose their way into her business. During the school year, her punishments were equally gruesome, just more subtle. In fifth grade she had taken away John's bathroom privileges for a full week because he had forgotten to tell her about parent teacher interviews. He relieved himself in the bushes behind the Circle K every morning on his way to school praying no one from his class would see.

John was black and blue, with a split lip from that particular beating. It was a Friday evening so that the next day he didn't have to face the daycare kids, just spend his entire day cleaning the house from top to bottom as he did every Saturday. Back then it never occurred to him to tell anyone or call the police or even run away. Thinking back to this always made John sick with rage that that abusive hag gotten away with it.