Helene and Scott with a fur friend.

Photo by kazuend on Unsplash

I can’t make it to the top without the pull from my sister. The round rocks slippery from the green stuff that floats in the river keep makin’ my sneakers stick between. Mucks them up. I gotta hold hard to her hand and keep upright. One. More. Tug. Up! We get steady on a high mound of clay and rock sprouting huckleberry bushes. We sneak peeks at the river. From here it gushes water towards a waterfall, spitting mad, froth spraying




to the tall…


Jeanine’s display is in the back room of the warehouse. She sits atop a stool too high for her plump little legs, but her clog heels dangle on the stool’s step and balance her upright. Her purple bangs fall between her face and glasses. It makes for a routine of hopping off stool, taking off glasses, tucking hair behind ears, placing glasses back on face (not before cleaning smudge marks with t-shirt) and pushing herself back on the stool there while she adjusts her cotton T back over her tummy rolls. She waits.

Crafties natter and…

Photo by Christian Wiediger on Unsplash

I’ve been dead a few times. Three I think. A vet. A physiotherapist. A town council person. My favorite is a Rockette. That’s new. A divorce attorney. I thought that would come in handy a few times. She wanted all of my domains but I never gave them to her. Vice President of a New Zealand University and just a lady passing by asked if I can stand the chilled season for much longer by Fred Mitchell of the Darlington Times. I think I said, “I don’t mind it as I travel to Miami this time of year.”

Today I…

Photo by Masaru Suzuki on Unsplash

We sat on damp cobble stairs outside Club Amnesia (I used a fake ID) in Gastown for hours. Probably twenty minutes. Alcohol steals time and memory. It can be equally generous and give it back. But it’s mostly a thief.

One, two, three, “JEEP!”. Unison. He had something I wanted. That’s a good start before sex.

The hard top off.

North Vancouver summers are hot at high noon and days on the beaches of Ambleside feel like California. I know this because I went there when I was seven, camped all the way…

Photo by JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash

They walked up the cathedral steps in accidental unison. She was careful not to trip and held her free hand over her stomach, felt a fleeting flutter of maternal instinct, or maybe nerves. A push of the revolver head on her spine kept her moving. Her father wanted to show he was doing his job to the scary men standing by the car, umbrellas, and guns a-ready chewing on their cigars. It won’t rain. The clouds are too high; the wind shear is blowing them straight over the mountain tops. Just as the doors opened…

Helene Taylor

Screenwriter. Playwright. Prose. Poetry. Musings. Chronic curiosity. Story Engine. Research fiend. Cynical Gen X slacker. www.helenetaylor.ca

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