'Blind' - My non-fiction short story that made the shortlist in the SIWC contest last fall

Ok, at the request of a friend, here is the non-fiction short story I wrote last fall. It is based on an experience my husband had as a teenager. I actually want to write a book of short stories based on his life because, well, after reading the story, maybe you'll understand. So here it is!


Blind

The bus crawls over the pavement at a pace I am unsatisfied with. We have thousands of kilometres to go and I am already bored. My unread comic books are burning a hole in my bag as I glumly stare forward at nothing. It is hard to stare at nothing, much harder than one would expect. At first it takes effort and I wonder if they will catch on. After the first few hours I stop caring. I want my comic books. I want a normal family. I am fourteen and I am not blind.

The bus makes many stops between Quebec and British Columbia and I am always the first person off. It is company policy, you see, to let the disabled passengers disembark before the regular folk. I try to hide my embarrassment as my mom guides me down the aisle. They all stare and I know they feel sorry for me. How terrible that that young man is at such a disadvantage. Has he ever seen a sunset or a naked woman or his own reflection in a mirror? What would be worse, having seen these things and then losing your sight to never see them again, or never having seen anything in the first place? I want to scream, “I’ll tell you what is worse, having parents that are too damn cheap to buy a bus ticket.” In my resentment, I trip a little as I step from the last stair onto the pavement. My mom winks at me. She thinks I’m putting on a show for the benefit of our audience. I contemplate giving them a show they will never forget. Of course, that would be the end of our free ride. I regain my footing and stalk off at an appropriate pace.

My brother meets up with me in the bathroom. He thinks that I am not convincing enough as a blind person. “Give me the cane,” he says as he tries to tug it out of my hands. “I could do a much better job than you.” I know that he is my twin but I wonder if I somehow ended up with all of the brains, leaving him empty space where his should be. “Yes,” I say sarcastically, as I struggle to keep hold of the cursed stick of dishonesty, “it makes perfect sense for us to leave the bathroom in reversed roles, with you suddenly struck blind and me miraculously healed and able to see again.” It is not as if we are identical twins. I don’t know how I am even related to such an idiot. Maybe I kicked him too many times while we were in the womb. He grudgingly agrees that maybe a switcheroo isn’t the best idea. I refrain from hitting him over the head with my cane. It shouldn’t hurt that much, being as empty as a whistle and therefore devoid of any nerve endings. Instead, I do my business and then put my game face back on as I step out of the bathroom. My mom is waiting for me. I try not to glare at her. We continue our charade.

We are halfway there. The stuffy air in the overcrowded tin can is repugnant and I am thankful that I am not really blind. If my sense of smell was any sharper, I would probably lose my lunch in the aisle. For some reason, the other passengers seem to think that I am deaf as well as blind. “Poor thing,” they mutter to each other, “he is so young.” They stare at me unabashedly and when they address me, they yell in my face, their eyes wide as if they are making up for what they think I cannot see.

My mom has made a friend and they chatter like two hens about whatever middle-aged women talk about; I don’t pay attention as I really don’t care. My brother has the luxury of being able to watch the movies offered as entertainment by the bus driver. It is tempting to try and watch along with him, but I have already noticed people studying me out of curiosity, and I don’t want to be found out as a fake. Instead I look straight ahead and lose myself in my thoughts. I am surprised as the hours fly by. We have just passed Calgary and as I see the Rocky Mountains looming ahead in the distance, I think of new beginnings and maybe a chance for a more normal life. If this bus ride is any indication, I have little chance of that, but I still hope for what the regular kids have: a stable home, a warm meal each night, a friend or two to shoot the shit with. I’ve had it with the monthly visits to the Salvation Army and my parents making us move every time the rent comes due. I hope that maybe this time my brother and I will have our own beds instead of a mattress that my dad decides to cut in half. I absentmindedly rub my hand down my thigh, over the foot-long scar where the sharp end of a spring gouged through my flesh, down to the white of the femur. My dad failed to notice the sharp edges of the exposed metal springs, but then, he is the one who is actually blind. I am too self-conscious of my pasty white legs to wear shorts, but if I did, I would be tempted to tell anyone who noticed the scar that it was the result of a shark attack. That would be more exciting than the mattress story.

My mom’s new friend engages me in conversation. She asks about what it is like to be blind and how I came to be that way and I give her the scripted response. I am feeling a little more generous because we are now only a few hours away from Chilliwack. I add a few embellishments to make the story seem a heartfelt triumph of the human spirit over adversity. Later I will find out that my mom filled her in on our little scam on day two of the trip and that she was yanking me along for some kicks as she and my mom snickered behind my back.

We finally pull into the bus depot in Chilliwack. This time I don’t mind being the first off of the bus. As always, I shuffle my feet down the bus steps and reach my hand out to my mom so she can guide me onto the platform. She is tired after the four-day long trip and swears at me in annoyance as she bats my hand away. She seems to have forgotten that she is to be playing guide to her poor blind son. The passengers seated at the windows of the bus have not forgotten. They gasp at such a heartless gesture in dismay, the pity in their eyes painting my body like little red laser pointers as I try to shrink inside of myself to avoid the embarrassment of being related to such a bitch. I follow my mom and my brother to get our bags. There really isn’t any point in trying to continue with the act now. I grab my backpack and think about which comic I am going to read first. Probably Spiderman.

Change...at last.

It has been a good month and a half since my last post, the one where I bemoaned my current living situation and announced my serious intent to find another home. Well...we did! After two weeks of intense apartment/house hunting, we found a place more suitable and have moved all of our stuff (lots and lots and lots of STUFF) in. Now I have the wonderful task of finding a place for everything. I guess I have been slacking because we have been moved in for four three days now and I still don't know where any of my pants are (thank goodness for hubby's old sweats that I found on top of a box of CD's), but I've been extra tired lately and the baby has decided to work on her audition for the role of banshee.

Regardless of the current chaos, I am very happy to have a place that is warm, carpeted, bug free (as much as any place can be), large enough to fit our incredible amount of stuff, and.....HAS A DISHWASHER!!! Though, the dishwasher isn't working right now. Hehe. Anyway, I am content.

I plan to give myself this week to clean the place up and get settled and then next week it is on to something I have neglected for far too long: writing.

Speaking of which, I am pleased to announce that I entered the Surrey International Writing Contest again this year and made it to the shortlist. My piece was a non-fiction short story, and though I did not win (sigh), I did manage to make it to the top nine out of 300 entries. I may post the story sometime this week.

Now...to clean :)

Looking for tips on writing creative nonfiction....

This year I plan to enter the SIWC writing contest again, though I am mixing it up by entering a non-fiction piece. I have never written non-fiction before, so if anyone has any tips or advice, or knows of a good website that explains how to write non-fiction, I would love the help!

Other than that, not much writing has been done lately. I started working part-time at a video store a month ago, so it has been an adjustment taking care of a four-month old and working a couple evenings a week. Plus I somehow managed to catch a cold. And I threw my back out. But...life is good! Being one who has always battled anxiety and a constant dissatisfaction with the present, I've finally reached a point in my life where I'm completely content day-to-day. I still have the nagging feeling of wanting my novel to be finished, but as a whole, I feel very complete right now. Becoming a mother is probably a large part of my happiness. There are still a lot of uncertainties (what do I do when my mat leave runs out next February and I have no job to go back to?!) but I have faith that things will work out.

Now if I could just get my back to cooperate.....

Still kicking around....

I am truly horrible at blogging. Part of me thinks that I should just put my blog on hold and wait until I've finished my novel before starting up again. It has been tempting. I can't make myself do that, though, because I don't want to lose touch with everyone I have met here, and I am also really stubborn.

So...I will try and keep the postings coming.

Today I am in a rather melancholy mood. I just finished reading Stephen King's 'Under the Dome,' and as it happens with any other exciting read, I am experiencing the withdrawals of finishing a really good book. I also am not sure what to think, because although I loved his newest novel, I also found the end to go in a direction I wasn't extremely fond of. I found myself wanting to hold my daughter close and never let her go after I read the last page. Great novel, just very dark. I don't want to give anything away, so I'll leave it at that.

As for my own writing, I'm still plugging away, every so slowly. I have decided to enter the SIWC writing contest again this year, though this time I plan to write a non-fiction entry, a first for me. My husband is the inspiration for this piece. His experiences growing up in his family are so beyond anything I have heard before that I decided they should be captured in writing. This should be fun!

Well, I hope all of you are enjoying your summer so far :)

I'm back! And I'm entering a writing contest!

I know, I know, I've been noticeably absent and there is no excuse. I apologize for my lack of blog postings, and especially for the lack of comments on all of your blogs. You are all amazing, and I aspire to be as dedicated to the blogosphere as the rest of you have proven to be. I salute you!

Now, for one of my many excuses as to just where the heck I have been, I blame my reticence to post on the exciting fact that I am entering a writing contest. This is the first contest I have ever entered. I can honestly say that I am scared spitless and have been fighting a good case of writer's block. August was not a very creative month for me. I've finally had to sit and make myself write, forcing what I hope is a pretty cool poem, as well as short story, out of my terrified brain. The contest deadline is this Friday, so I have been working feverishly on my submissions, dreaming of actually being awarded an honourable mention. Ack, that would be SO COOL!

Originally when I heard about the Surrey International Writer's Conference, I planned to attend, and boy was I excited! Authors! Agents! People as obsessed with writing as I was...and in person! Then I saw the price of the conference and realized that there was no chance of that happening. I settled for entering their annual writing contest, which, really, is an excellent idea anyway, because if I can actually win a prize, I will have some publishing credibility to mention in a query.

I had a good laugh tonight, when after emailing the contest coordinator about, oh, five or six times, she mentioned that my obsessiveness with getting the submission guideline details right (cause, seriously, who else wouldn't be a bit afraid of screwing that up....just look at how many people mess up on their queries!) had prompted a blog topic. I blushed. And giggled.

Well, wish me luck! I've got to get back to editing my work....and maybe I should give some attention to my neglected husband. I think he is sulking right now.

Oh, the life of a writer....