Words By Whittall

  Darcy had never believed in love at first sight until that day in the bank when it hit like a freight train to the chest. The blond guy, two ahead of her in line, turned to look at the fly-speckled clock and: kaboom caboose! She was knocked off the tracks. She knew she was deeply in love with this man. She knew they were meant to be together forever, and even though she was starting university in September she knew their relationship was strong enough to withstand any distance. She also knew he’d think she was nuts if she ran up to him in the bank and declared any of this, so she waited, watched, and listened. Try as she might, she didn’t hear the teller refer to him by name, couldn’t see his signature or recognize his pay stub, and couldn’t determine how much money he withdrew. Instead, she watched silently as he sauntered past her, out the door and made a left onto Lynx Avenue. That’s ok, Darcy thought. Banff is a small town and I’m here all summer. I’m sure to run into him...

  Thickly painted robin's egg blue cupboards framed the window looking down to the river, a trivial and unimportant view as any farmer's wife preferred to see what was happening at the barn.  And so it was, that the focal point of my grandmother's kitchen was not the window, the cupboards, nor the behemoth, blackened wood burning stove which produced warmth, wonderful scents and greasy gray streaks of soot on the canary yellow walls. No, the focal point of my grandmother's bright kitchen was the overstuffed, threadbare chair wedged in the corner beside that stove, for it was here she let my brother and me comb her hair, told us stories, and, upon begging, taught us bad words in Pennsylvania Dutch: dommy and dumkoff. I’d been hoping for damn or darn, maybe even shit, but none were in this sweet woman’s lexicon in any language.  She inherited the kitchen when she married into the family in 1931. The colours were well established long before then, before I, or my father...

  Oh oh oh, Pine needles in my socks Oh oh oh, It’s like walking, walking on rocks Oh oh oh, Pine needles sting my toes   Oh oh oh, Pine needles getting up my nose!   Chorus: Ooh! Pine needles everywhere, do doot do doo Pine needles in my hair, do doot do doo Pine needles here and there, do doot do doo Pine needles in my underwear!   Oh oh oh, Pine needles sting me like a bee Oh oh oh, Yet they make me hap-hap-happy   Oh oh oh, Pine needles from the Christmas tree Oh oh oh, Remind me of family!  

“It’s not the fall that kills you,” Tom Rafuse always used to say. “It’s the landing!” He’d lift his florid face toward the sun or the ceiling, depending on his location, and laugh and laugh at his own joke. Tom had an easygoing manner, a penchant for pocket protectors, and the meaty paunch and polyester wardrobe of a much-beloved high school shop teacher, which he was. Millicent Robar lived next door with her cats, Mister Mittens, Princess Poo and Sir Scratchalot. She had seen and heard Tom tell his fall gag many, many times, and those around Tom when he told it never failed to chuckle along. Even those who, like Millie, had heard it many, many times. Tom was that kind of guy. Jovial and a bit obtuse. You couldn’t help laughing at his stupid, repetitive jokes. Millie didn’t ponder long on her own feelings for Tom, but she often wished that she had a man like him in her life. His wife, Rose, was downright dim, Millie thought. She was always at his side, looking up adoringly at him ...

Moira fingered the fabric in her closet: a winter wool designer suit purchased at an outlet store. Her mother had been with her, the first spur-of-the-moment trip outside the house in years. The suit was fine, her mother said, but a little snug. Perhaps one size up. Moira complied. Two days later her mother said, “The eulogy was lovely, dear. But all I could think about was what a great job you’d done in hemming those pants.” Moira laughed bleakly at the memory of her father’s funeral. Her family wasn’t one for feeling their feelings. She’d been pleased to give her mother something else to think about that sad day. Now, more than a decade later, the hem still held.   Moira knew she’d been lucky. At 49 her dad was the first funeral for which she’d chosen her own outfit, her grandparents and other family friends having died when she was a child.   At 59, there were too many funerals. She’d worn these the original pants to mourn her business partner in January, then bought ...

  “Willa! Where the hell is my roast pan?” Kenny shouts.   “Keep your fucking shirt on!” I say, handing a clean pan to him across a passthrough from the white tiled room where I wash the dishes, to the kitchen where he dirties them.     The restaurant, Peaches, is open 24 hours and renowned for its potato “wedgies.” In the early morning hours, when the bars close, the place is packed with drunken assholes who line up out the door looking for starchy food to soak up the alcohol in their bellies.   That’s my shift. Overnights. Scrape. Rinse. Wash. Repeat.   The restaurant is always short on pots and pans.  I don’t know how Diego does it, but when his shift ends and mine begins, there are never any leftover pots to scrub or glasses to stack. Diego the Spanish Dish Washer. Capitalized because it might as well be his full name. He works the evening shift and is so popular and handsome that the regulars know him by name. He is a dishwashing l...

  Bob wanted to make sure everything was perfect. Jack had asked for his help and he wasn’t going to let him down, feverishly consulting his list while packing the car and scavenging for supplies. He admired Jack. Looked up to his older brother. He would move heaven and earth to make sure he arrived with everything they would need. Flashlights: Check. Two of them to be safe. He took the one from the kitchen and the one from Ethel’s bedside table. Surly she wouldn’t need emergency lighting for just a couple of days. Jack hadn’t said, but the weather looked good for the weekend, so Bob assumed that’s how long they’d be gone. Matches: Check. Oh wait, what if it rains? Bob rifled through the pantry until he found the zip log bags. Best to keep those matches dry. The paper too. He’d already packed last week’s Supersaver fliers, so he grabbed a plastic bag, dug the papers out of the box in the trunk of the car, put them in the plastic bag, back into the box and back into the trunk. ...