Glory Days

 Today’s prompt from Michelle at WordPress: “Write the blurb for the book jacket of the book you’d write, if only you had the time and inclination.”

This is a bit off the cuff but I took up the challenge and this is what I came up with in 15 minutes:

            If she was dead, why was she in this classroom listening to a professor drone on about the linguistic beauty of the workaday language of English? She had often been told when she was alive that when you went to hell you were trapped in the circumstance you hated most on earth. And the circumstance she hated most on earth was being bored. And doing paperwork. She was bored but at least the paperwork, which had been her nemesis when she was alive was not present—so maybe, just maybe she was not in hell. The prof wore a belt with a peace sign buckle. He had wild gray hair and a suede vest—why was she back in linguistics class at university listening to Dr. Ivy? And why was she in her least favourite class?

            Cecelia had crashed into the back of a semi that jack-knifed on a foggy day in September, 2010. Even if she had seen it, there was no way to avoid the massive truck. She was returning from an unsuccessful business trip to Toronto and was eager to get back to home and hearth. The midday sun had been bright, the radio loud, and the trip slowly becoming a memory until she reached Cambridge. A grey curtain of heavy fog descended on the 401. It was not just a haze—she was caught in clouds of billowy pewter. She was disoriented—but she continued on in her quest to get home.  She knew that she should pull off the road but she did not know what she would be pulling  into.

            Then she was no longer in the car. She had been escorted to a ledge where she was allowed to see through the fog to the chaos below. Her body was slumped over the steering wheel………..

            In this tale of death come to life, Cecelia gets to relive what she often thought of as the best part of her life—her days at university. But relived again with the wisdom of decades behind her, would those days turn out to be the great time she remembered, or was the life that had been taken away from her not so bad after all.

            In this novel of second chances, the main character gets a chance to do what many of us dream of doing—returning to our glory days. Was she reincarnated? Was it a miracle? Was it all a dream? Or was she really dead?

Published in: on January 24, 2014 at 2:07 pm  Comments (37)  
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Not a Proud Christmas Moment But A Memorable One

Wrote this for my Writers’ Group Christmas Party tonight–an unusual memory perhaps, but a memory nonetheless:

71 Chevrolet Monte Carlo

71 Chevrolet Monte Carlo (Photo credit: DVS1mn)

What was I thinking? My conscious has been niggling at me lately and it is about an adventure I had in fourth year at university. I have not always been the lovely person you are accustomed to, and every now and then a flash of that earlier feisty, perhaps a little selfish and superficial personality shows its rather unlovely self…. but not too often.

I remember the days when life was about me, me, me. And many of my friends were the same. It was not like we were horrible people—we were just single kids in our early twenties who had to find an outlet for our energy after studying our brains out for mid-terms.

We lived in residence but since we were seniors we got to live in the residence that had apartments—with four room-mates sharing accommodations. And it was boys and girls living down the hall from each other—which was a real change from separate residences, where the boys had to be “signed in” at the front desk before being allowed upstairs.

In real life, we were no longer boys and girls, we were men and women—but being at school we were not challenged by the responsibilities of mortgages, and keeping our homes respectable, and paying bills other than our tuition, books and housing. Many of us were still supported somewhat by parents, loans, and summer jobs. So maybe we can be forgiven for our dastardly deed.

It was Christmas and we were in the midst of finishing up final papers and studying for finals. The guys down the hall had a Christmas tree, and I and my roommates thought that having one would brighten up our spirits and apartment. So we asked them where they got their tree. They told us they had swiped it from a mall a couple of miles away. Someone had set up a tree kiosk and was selling the trees in the parking lot. They had all piled into an old 71 Chevy and secured a tree—but really what they had done was stalk the lot after midnight and stolen the tree when no one was there to see them.

There was a process to the whole adventure. They had driven to the lot, turned their lights off, run to the where trees were kept and taken a tree as opposed to choosing a tree with deliberation and thought. They then peeled out of the lot with four wheels barely on the pavement and raced home. Well, this sounded like quite an adventure to my roommates and me. The guys offered to take us to the lot and procure a tree for us—but we had to come along. So eight of us piled into the big brown Chevy and we nonchalantly made our way to the lot.

We entered the lot, turned off the car’s headlights, and three guys piled out of the car to get us our tree while the driver waited in anticipation of taking off like a wild man. They got the tree—stuffed it in the trunk and got back in the car. The car doors were barely closed when we were peeling out of the driveway, tossed around in the back seat of the car like rag dolls. And of course we were laughing and having a merry old time. There may have been some grain or grape beverages involved—I am not sure.

A grower in Waterloo, Nova Scotia prunes Balsa...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We got back to residence—jubilant in our success. We did not think about the fact that we were stealing. We did not think about the fact that the trees we had stolen were the basis for someone’s livelihood—we just basked in the glory of our escapade. We took the tree into our apartment and decorated with strings of popcorn and paper snowflakes. Such a lovely centrepiece to our Christmas celebrations—untainted by any feelings of regret.

Today I wonder what we were thinking.  We probably knew it was wrong but were too high on the adventure to let that bother us. This Christmas memory is not one that I regret, as it makes me think about the fact that good people sometimes do questionable things. We learn from those things and it becomes part and parcel of who we are. Despite the fact that it still niggles at me—I still remember the rush of excitement, the camaraderie in the devilish deed, and the fun we had.

Have you ever done something that you regret or should regret?

Published in: on December 6, 2013 at 9:14 pm  Comments (30)  
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Day 25 ~ 200 Words

This is the last entry of my 200 word challenge. I may miss it. I may not.

I Remember When I Was Young

I Remember When I Was Young (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I cannot remember my student number. Little wonder, as it has been over three decades since I last used it. But for years I knew it. It was my student identification at university. Though it was just a number, it was my number.

I seem to have forgotten whole portions of my life. It is like grades two and three did not happen. And it is as if I was never young. Or maybe, truth be told, I never grew up.

I seem to be forgetting more and more things these days. I remember when I was dating my husband 32 years ago, a woman I came into contact with quite frequently could never seem to remember my name. I was insulted at the thought that  I was not memorable. Now, I am that woman. I am about her age now, and I have forgiven her.

Sometimes we notice things that we attribute to age that perhaps we have done all our lives. Maybe I never really was good at remembering certain things.

Published in: on July 31, 2012 at 12:17 am  Comments (23)  
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