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Falling freely down the rabbit hole—imagine the sights!—writing as I go, with my peers on Free Fall Fridays.
Prompt- every second Monday
Every second Monday I get off the trolley, hold my breath past the bakery, and stroll leisurely along the row of boutiques on tenth, making my way to Harrison Galleries. I learned years ago that no matter how seldom I came by, Harrison remembered my name and the piece I had bought. Perhaps he had to study his “name binder” every day, I wasn’t about to ask. Now I had, as Petula Clark would sing, “a little place you can go to…” —where no, no, Petula was too realistic to sing, “where everybody knows your name…” (Cheers) Harrison knew me, and the other gallery patrons, with their unknown lives, knew they liked art. That was our secret. While the rest of the world came downtown to see moving pictures of car explosions and car chases, we would hold our gaze on one picture for a long time. You get out what you put into it.
Every second Monday I was able to enter a world of sensibility, awe, surging emotion, a new lens for seeing, a new way of appreciating, a matter of fears and aspirations…. And the soft spoken people there, of sense and understanding, of deep emotions under their tweeds; they too knew. They knew that this was the Life, capital L, that made the trolly ride and fortnight in the country worth it.
prompt- she thought she heard
God bless a sunny late summer day. The sun still bright, albeit with less heat, and anticipation in the air for a new season and fall fashions and off-season trips. Her name was Kim Darby, middle aged, dyed dark hair, and she felt some sort of anticipation. She never slept in on weekends—what if she missed out on something?—and here she was in a new coffee shop having a new cinnamon tea and listening to the happy bustle of traffic outside rolling along the road on the way to somewhere.
Later Darby would stroll the walk and poke her head into boutiques and savour the scent of new clothes. Now she just enjoyed being here and now and anticipating what ever she was anticipating. It was just a feeling, in fact, that life was grand and there was a surprise around the corner.
Grand? She was wearing a new broach, her administrative work was going fine, and her home was all paid off. Well, it helped that she had used her inheritance from her mother. Last year. After more than the year of mourning that our Victorian ancestors had observed, Darby had nice colours and a nice outlook and life went on. No longer was she a mousy secretary. Now she was a mature administrative assistant, with a nice broach, a nice handbag, and an adult self-confidence. And a nice chain for her nice new reading glasses.
She was reading less, maybe, but more quality stuff. Or so she thought. No longer guilty that mother would catch her reading junk and scream at her for wasting her life. No longer screamed at for every little mistake. Now Darby could read Oprah Magazine and reflect that her poor mother must have had someone scream at her. Her magazine peeked out of her handbag, as a promise of a special treat when she got home, a treat too special to waste here in the coffee shop, however exciting the shop was.
Darby smelled cinnamon, heard the hubbub of fellow patrons, gazed at the passing cars out the plate window, felt the warmth of being inside, took in the music of the Gypsy Kings, sipped her tea, took in a few random sentences that sounded so interesting, and then—shock! She thought she heard—shock—a voice just like her mother’s. Same sound, same pace, same tone of voice…
Darby took a breath and then looked around. Where was my mother?
Prompt- tomorrow
Tomorrow I could get so many improvements to my jet pack: better aviation fuel, better ear defenders, better flame proof overalls. But who cared? My gyros were just as good as teflon gyros, my wire controls were just as good wireless ones, and yes mother, I had good ear defenders built into my helmet.
In my father’s day no one wore a helmet, they only had teensy earplugs, and they took great joy in seat of the pants flying. No gyros.
The early jet pack lovers used to fly on trips together. Yes, it was to help if someone crashed, but it was also for the fellowship of the open sky. “Live to fly, fly to live.”
Tomorrow I am going to browse the stores with great anticipation, even though I know I’ll end up buying something no more expensive than a comic book.
And I’ll get on the satphone to Keith to ask if he wants to jet to Banff. And he’ll say no, too boring. Boring? To watch the prairies rolling by under your feet, with a sweet whine in your ears, and the promise of new ground to walk on when you got there?
I grew up in the lower mainland, crisscrossed with stupid flight paths and stupid mountains and no room for any jet packs or any hot air balloons. I think open prairie is stupendous, and he says it’s boring! I don’t want to admit this about my friend, but maybe he’s boring. Well.
I bet Peggy Sue would jet with me. That girl has no fear of flying. I could promise her a nice supper in Banff. I’m sure she would come with me. And we could stay the night to cool our engines, and she could show me her imitation of a moaning jet. She says she can’t have fun without the sound effects. Maybe I should call her tonight, and skip the stores tomorrow. The more days and nights in Banff the better, says I.
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Sean Crawford
April 2021
Falling with a bump, as folks remarked on three characters:“a broach,” “deep emotions under tweeds” and “the boring one“.
Weather: Saturday saw sunburns; Sunday saw a wet snow that even the dogs didn’t like. Sunny today; later this week will be rain “showers” and “periods of snow.” Such is God’s own country.
Music:
You know the Cheers refrain, but did you know the the full lyrics?
And here is Petula’s classic, once used for powerful effect in a scene “off the island” on Lost.
