MORNING SERIAL: PRAIRIE’S END, MANITOBA 2

Overture: I wake up most mornings with a half a dozen characters, a plotline or two, and a bunch of run-on sentences doing the polka in my head with their work boots on. After the requisite morning constitutions are ratified, I oftentimes just let these night-grown inspirations fade away.

Well, no more! I am resolved to give my readers something to read! How about a good old-fashioned serial? Compelling, bent-widget characters with a rollicking plot fraught with lotsa knots, cliff-hangers and roundabouts that meet in the middle.

In the spirit of NaNoWriMo, it will be voluminous, spontaneous, and free-flowing. You don’t know where the story and the characters are going, so why should I? I won’t promise 50,000 words, but you never know what my morning coffee will deliver!

We continue…

Episode Two: The Stampede is Ont (1,100 words, about a nine-minute read)

The trucking company was called, “Reimer Reindeers” and the company logo had been created by the owner’s diffident step-son, Benjamin, or “Little Ben” as he was known in Prairie’s End.

The garish logo showed a herd of galloping reindeer, antler-to-antler in a frenzied dash across the map from Eastern Manitoba to Toronto. Spinning, smoking wheels replaced legs and hooves. A bold, swooping font declared,

“THE STAMPEDE IS ONT!”

It had started out in Ben’s mind as, “The Reimer Stampede is on!” This was just at the time when the federal government decreed that all provinces would go from three or four-letter acronyms to computer-friendly, consistent two-letter identifiers. Thus, Manitoba went from Man. to MB, Alberta from Alta. to AB and so on.

Little Ben thought that since the Reimer company only trucked between its terminals in Kenora and Toronto, all within the province of Ontario, or ON, that a clever, meaningful slogan could be made. “The Reimer Stampedis ON!” set on a map graphic would tell people that Reimer was an Ontario carrier. Besides, he liked the herd of charging reindeer. “Tres Canadien,” he thought.

Unfortunately, Big Ben, or Old Man Reimer as he was known in Prairie’s End, thought that the two-letter names were a temporary inconvenience. “That will never LAST!” Based on this viewpoint, and in the dubious interests of saving decal material, he ordered the graphics company to create a shorter, less clever slogan, “The Stampede is ONT!”

* * *

Wade walked up to the three-step wooden porch hung on the side of the construction trailer. REIMER REINDEERS – OPERATIONS was stencilled onto the corrugated sidewall and a busy cluster of alien-looking antennae poked up into the pale blue Manitoba sky from the flat roof. A radio tower was bolted to the end of the trailer and it stood erect, a lone 40-foot weed in a field of alfalfa.

That’s quite an impressive erection, he thought.

Checking his briefcase just before he entered, Wade ensured that he had all of his paperwork, the contract documents, the bank draft and the Non-disclosure agreement. He paused on the porch, striking an improbable Superman pose before he entered, to steel his nerve.

Inside, as always, sat Mr. Reimer at a desk made from sawhorses and a sheet of cabinet plywood. A (crude) oil rendering of a stampeding herd of reindeer was screwed to the buckled panelling behind his desk. CB radios sat in a clustered congregation behind him, little green bands pulsing brightly, indicating that the drivers were accessible, should he need to speak to them. A tangle of microphone cords spilled onto the ground – a brimming cornucopia of coils.

“Nice of you to drop in on us this afternoon, Wade,” Reimer said without looking up.

The clock read 7:53. “Yes, sir. My pleasure.”

Reimer looked up quickly, his normally stern, heavy-jowled countenance now made even grimmer by a pouting grimace. “Eh?” he grunted, glancing sideways at a young man a few feet away at a small wooden desk. “Accounts Receivable” was written in felt pen on a scrap of two-by-four standing edgewise on the desktop.

The fellow seated there—he was maybe twenty or so—glanced up at Wade, then over at Reimer. The boy shrugged, tossed the blonde hair out of his eyes and tapped his watch. “Tap-tap-tap,” said the Timex.

Schinda, Wade thought to himself, taking care to register no emotion or concern.

“It’s my day off, sir. Remember? Besides, I start at eight, so…” Wade replied.

“So, why are you here den?”

“Well, Mr. Reimer, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” Wade said, peering down and fishing around in the briefcase. He pulled up a clutch of papers like he was retrieving a stringer of perch.

“You’re gonna hafta wait a minute. Wade a minute, eh?” He grinned a wide, toothy smile towards the skinny boy behind the Accounts Receivable two-by-four. The boy smiled back and then spat a full mouthful of sunflower seeds into a white foam cup on his desk. He transferred the contents from the cup to a round, grey metal wastepaper container at his feet. The metal pail was half full of wet, spent seeds.

No wonder his hair’s so yellow, Wade thought to himself. He’s turning into a sunflower.

“Is it possible we could have a private conversation, sir?” Wade asked. He shuffled sideways, scraping his feet to indicate that the ribbon-headed AR clerk could sidle by him and out the door of the crowded trailer. Reimer’s wooden chair creaked.

“About what?” Reimer said, leaning back. The schinda clerk did not move. He watched Reimer like a cat staring through window glass at a bird feeder. If he had a tail, it would have twitched.

“A business matter, ” Wade said, then cleared his voice and restated his case, “a very important business matter. Urgent, as a matter of fact.”

“It can’t Wade?” the sunflower/cat/boy said, one clinging black seed giving him a Jack-O-lantern grin. Bobby Clarke, 1969.

Reimer snorted out a guffaw, and then said, almost in one word, “Randy, get outta here for a while.”

Randy shut his ledger, grabbed a handful of seeds from a near-full dish and went out a door behind him, grabbing his jacket as he left.

“Welllll,” Reimer said, dragging a chair to the side of his desk for Wade to sit. “When yer accountant says he has urgent business, then I guess you gotta take a minute and listen.” He reached to the other side of the desk and plugged in a kettle. A jar of instant coffee sat open on his desk. “Prips?” he asked, motioning at the coffee.

“No, thanks,” Wade said. He sorted the papers in his hands like he was alphabetizing them, stalling for time. Sitting upright on the hard plastic seat, his chair was almost tipping forward. Is the offer enough? It’s three times the value of the rolling stock, parts, and the buildings. His receivables run at only 50K, so that’s easily covered. What if he counters? Of course, he’s gonna counter, Brainiac—just go already. It’s a shitload of money and he’s gotta retire soon! He can pay off his house, get that big fishing boat he always talks about.

“Mr. Reimer, I’ve come here this morning to make what I consider to be a very…”

Before he could finish, there was a crash and a tall, muscular body filled the open doorway. Square shoulders blocked the sun – an impenetrable silhouette, an amorphous Rockem-Sockem black shape.

And there too, hopping and bobbing from behind the imposing hulk, trying to see inside, Wade spotted Little Ben’s balding, cue-ball-white head.

In a twinkling of bedazzled-nails, the shadowy figure held up a gold badge and in a dark brown voice, she said, “DANIELLE OARLESS! U.S. BORDER PATROL. YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!”

Next: “Everything must come to an end. Except for farmer sausage, that has two ends.” (Airs Nov 13, 5:55 am)

 

 

 

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Morning Serial: Prairie’s End, Manitoba 1

I wake up most mornings with a half a dozen characters, a plotline or two, and a bunch of run-on sentences running around in my head. After the requisite morning constitutions are ratified, I oftentimes just let these night-grown inspirations fade away.

Well, no more! I am resolved to give my readers something to read! How about a good old-fashioned serial? Compelling, bent-widget characters with a rollicking plot fraught with lotsa knots, cliff-hangers and roundabouts that meet in the middle.

In the spirit of NaNoWriMo, it will be voluminous, spontaneous, and free-flowing. You don’t know where the story and the characters are going, so why should I? I won’t promise 50,000 words, but you never know what my morning coffee will deliver!

Fun? I hope so! My ulterior motive is to build a readership who appreciate my brand of schiet-stained rambling and are on-board for something maybe not so much fine arts mastered but more glockenspiel on acid. You know what I mean.

We begin…

Episode One: Wading for Godot (915 words, about a six-minute read)

Donald and Maria Oswald were happy. They had a quiet, loving marriage and lived in a paid-for double-wide—(“This Unit will make your smiles DOUBLE WIDE!”)—just a fat pitching wedge away from the Beauchamp Highway. Their corner lot was neatly tended, grass grew dense and dark green on the sloping lawn. No weeds defiled this Gretna Green.

“Just ‘cuz we don’t have no basement, don’t mean we don’t need no drainage,” Donald would proclaim. Standing stiff and tall inside next to the ‘Proud Panoramic Picture Window’ like an animated John A. Macdonald statue, he would watch the rain come down. He took inordinate satisfaction from seeing the rivulets run off the convex dome of packed topsoil. “Glad I mixed ‘er wit pea gravel,” he would murmur, his Adam’s Apple riding up and down like a ball on a string.

“Fallin’ on my head like a mammary,” he would sing-song, grabbing Maria’s blue jean mama butt as she walked by and the torrents poured out of the sky.

In Spring and Fall, there was a lot of rain. During the brief heat of Summer, thunderstorms visited them almost nightly, hammering the tinny roof in a deluge. These were angry, driving rains, the drops making pock-marks in the sandy aggregate of their block road that dried hard like smallpox scars. Often hailstones collected, glimmering white in the blue lard bucket that held the downspout, looking like batting practice baseballs before a Reimer Reindeer game.

“Real cedar siding,” Donald would point out to visitors, tapping on the horizontal slats and sneering at neighbouring vinyl facsimiles, their brittle, embossed skins yellowing in the sun.

On the adjoining lot were two Granny Houses. They were placed one at each end of the seigneurial shaped, convex-topped grass strip like identical twins on either end of a teeter-totter.

“We got the Little Big House Deluxe models,” Maria would chime-in as they toured visiting relatives from Wawanesa. “It was a little more money but Juanita and Wade are worth it. Family, you know.”

The Little Big Houses were likewise clad in cedar, with black shingle roofs—(“low-slope”)—and eight-by-eight decks, each holding identical Canadian Tire MeatMaster barbeques. Each home was like a brown Lego piece, wedged snugly into its end of the fish-finger shaped lot, the two protruding decks facing one another like four-year-olds with their tongues sticking out.

Juanita lived in the rearmost cube. She was a pert, big-busted woman with grey hair tousled just so and her strip mall clothes tight-fitting and providing an easy-to-follow focal pathway to her freckled but still-smooth cleavage. “Gotta show the boys what they want,” she’d trill, pushing her butt out and pointing her breasts up. “Hi-beam!” she’d proclaim proudly as Wade cringed. Gino, owner of the local service station and a widower, came by on alternate Wednesdays to align her headlights.

Juanita’s son by Donald was a middle-aged man named Wade. He was her detached co-habitant on the narrow property, living across the grassy curtilage that separated their tidy abodes. Wade was a man for whom two things were true. First, he was not yet achieving the success he foresaw for himself as a child. Second, he won $25,555 in the first ever Lotto 5/55 draw held in Manitoba in 1982. His five numbers won second-prize – he needed the bonus number to claim the top prize of $55,555. It was widely believed that the existence of this latter cash fact greatly contributed to the ongoing truth of the former life fact. This apparent causal relationship was invisible to Wade’s parents, Donald and Maria, and his birth mother, Juanita, but was plainly evident to all of the neighbours in the Jolly Reindeer Trailer Court and Retirement Club.

He was known as “Wade-a-minute,” or, “Wade-down,” or sometimes, “LightWade,” by the sharp-tongued ex-farmers and ex-cops and ex-Reimer Reindeer truck drivers that populated the ticky-tack, block-on-block grid. They thought little of this 48-year-old bachelor living next to the rolling strip of black macadam that stretched from Prairie’s End, Manitoba to Toronto, Ontario.

“He’s just lucky he hit that jackpot,” they’d say, their cups of Timmies steaming in mute agreement. “I’d be set for life too if I’da won that kinda money when I was twenty!” Truth is they didn’t, they wouldn’ta and they had no clue.

Wade knew of their name-calling, but he didn’t care. It was him after all, not them, who had taken the $25,555 Lotto cheque and signed it over to his cousin Woody, a newly-minted investment advisor in Winnipeg. His money went all-in… Apple (AAPL) at $220 USD per share. He had invested on a drunken bet, Woody saying he would give Wade his new Camaro if Apple stock did not at least double in the first year.

Had he not panicked and sold most of his shares in the tumble of 2009, just last year, Wade would be worth a couple of million now. But, unknown to his family and neighbours, he still had done well. Really well, or, “Seea scheen!” as his boss, Old Man Reimer, would say. Wade kept his financial success to himself and worked patiently on his master-plan. He tapped the keys of a calculator and smirked to himself, his pencil poised above a neat column of ledger entries at the kitchen table in the Deluxe Little Big House.

“Just Wade ’til next Tuesday!” he whispered to himself. “Then we’ll see who the ‘under-achiever’ is around here!”

Next: The Stampede is Ont!

 

 

Shade

FAMILY TREES sometimes cast shade. Due to the unbending quality of light and the laws of nature, this shade falls where designated by physics, not preference. We can’t change history to suit our current disposition.

The above is the mental garden in which the following Facebook post took root:

https://www.facebook.com/mitch.toews

Macdonald, Mennonites, and Métis: these things have been ricocheting around inside my bulbous, roomy-and-well-lit cranium lately. My daughter, a woman of letters considerable and the possessor of a mind much more well-tended and well-educated than her dad’s, did some research on the goings-on of 1870-1873, part of Sir John’s tenure.

It’s worth noting too that the grandchildren she has provided own a much less homogeneous ancestry than their maternal predecessors. Her rugrats are Menno-Ukrainian-Franco-Métis. This moves the issue out of the theoretical and right into Nanna & Gramps kitchen!

Her scholarly digging turned up some unsavory evidence about how Manitoba Métis were given “scrips” for land titles along many southern waterways in the then-new province. That was in 1870, before our Toews antecedent and his Molotschnan peacenik delegation rolled in and said, “Sure, we’ll take this stoney ground off your hands for frie, ommsonst.” As the research suggests (to some), the post-1870 gov of the day appeared slow-handed in making good on the scrips and many would-be Métis land-owners left for greener pastures, tired of waiting.

Historians also wonder whether the 1873 governments (Fed + Prov) had some prejudicial racial motivation; they were all out of Scots settlers from Ontario and if they didn’t act fast and populate the prairies, they stood to lose the territory to the avaricious Yanks. These industrious, white, tabular-headed Mennos, well-schooled in the way of farming floodplains and (as it turned out) compound interest, were juuuust the ticket! Exit Métis, enter Kleine Gemeinde.

The whole issue is complex and unsettling. What did the delegates weehte and when did they weehte daut?

* * *

This whole Mennonanigan got reinitiated, for me, when I read,

Canada’s First Scapegoat 

in The Walrus. An article that was preceded by “Old Macdonald”.

In Pursuit of One’s Own Identity

Know thyself. It’s not that easy.

Writer, know thyself.

LOL. Yeah, right.

This topic makes Dave from Leamington, Eek the Freek, Charcoal Charlie, and other trusted advisors roll their eyes. Boring. Still, it’s fertile soil and I plan to muck around in it a bit. Why not?

Here’s what one author wrote about this personal pursuit:

While we constantly hear of postcolonial writers—Salman Rushdie, for example, to name one of the most famous—I am part of a rarer, dying species: a pre-postcolonial writer. That’s because I was born and spent my teen years in part of one colonial Empire, in what was then (redacted to protect anonymity) and started my writing career in another part of a greater colonial empire: (redacted). Having outlived both of them qualifies me to make the claim to be “pre-postcolonial.” And since I have lived in the (redacted) since (redacted), that gives me a broad perspective that is reflected in my fiction.

Okay, not bad. A bit blah-blah-blah, but you know – writerly.

If I follow that format—and you give me a little latitude—I get this:

While we constantly hear of part-postcolonial writers—Miriam Toews, for example, to name one of the most famous—I am part of a rarer, dying species: a part-pre-postcolonial writer. That’s because I was born and spent my teen years in part of one colonial Empire, Steinbach, in what was previously The East Reserve in Manitoba, and started my writing career, years later, in another part of a greater colonial empire: Chilliwack, B.C. Having outlived one of them qualifies me to make the claim to be “part-pre-postcolonial.” And since I have lived in Canada from my birth in 1955, that gives me a sea-to-sea-to-sea perspective that is reflected in my fiction.

You diggin’ it? Me either. Too colonialcated. But it has some potential.

How about this introspective, Bukowskiesque gaze-and-mutter:

“Some writers grab the polish and remove the tarnish. For me, the tarnish is the thing. The unequivocal; the rough, crushed rock that packs tight and stays put.”

Sure that’s better, but ain’t it a little, “Oh, damn, I’m good! And so fresh.” Yeah. Thought so. I do try to drop the pretention, but like all Mennonites—even Mennonite Imposters, of which club I am the Boss—I’m pretty proud of my humility.

And then there’s the big question I am asked*: “What’s with all the assinine yappin’ on social media? And then you turn around and write these dark, hurtin’ stories about degenerate scum with theology degrees and such, interspersed with your, ‘Aren’t Mennonites quaint and whimsical, especially in 1964?’, stuff? Like, PICK A GENRE, DUDE!” 

* Not that anyone has actually ASKED me this, but IF THEY WOULD…

Anyway, “What’s with that schiet?” you ask? Good question. It’s mainly because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings on social media. I mean, it’s such a cowardly thing to do, right? Ignoble. The pinnacle of pipsqueakery. So, I like to kid around instead. Dad jokes, wordplay, quips, I’mjusfuckinwitcha stuff. You know?  At the same time, I DO mean to ruffle feathers in a lot of my writing. That is the point, sometimes.

I suppose I want to be class-clown AND also get a few “A” grades on essays, even though I like to mess around.

Here’s my last try at self-realization, for today:

If writing success is the tip of Everest, I am plodding my way there, wearing gummschooh three sizes too big and making my way over the wet, sucking clay of the Red River Valley towards the Himalayas.
.
You know the stuff, right? The sticky, grey, toxic compote around the basement walls of a house under construction. It reeks of radon, and of rotting alphalfa roots, and decaying ancestors. It makes each boot as heavy as a sack of nickels. Hope I don’t burst a stent!
.
Nonetheless, I like these boots I’m wearing even if they do come off every step or so. I enjoy the miserable terrain. I appreciate the path although I’d gladly take a less difficult shortcut—just for a change of pace—and I ❤️ the other travellers steeweling their way to higher ground along with me.

keep on trucking stewelling.png
Keep on steeweling.

 

allfornow,
Gummschooh Toews

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Brit Screenwriter and Canuck Author Seek Not-for-Profit Film Group

MARCH 2019 Update: The Council’s program does not include screenwriting as a qualifying performing arts activity. Oh well… I’m still looking for a screenwriter to collaborate with on my trilogy.

Object: MATRIMONY!

Well, even if marriage is out, perhaps a mutually beneficial, platonic, creative partnership working towards a COLLABORATIVE production effort within an ARTS COUNCIL FUNDED program is a possibility?

Here are the bullets:

  • I’ve written a short story trilogy that has drawn some interest as the raw material for a screenplay. http://bit.ly/FotWBtmSKY
  • I shared it with a friend in London, a screenwriter with some decent film creds, who expressed interest in the story and the possibility of turning it into a screenplay.
  • While we both liked the idea, it IS a longshot and we both have more than enough on our respective, existing, literary plates. We chose to pass, with regrets.
  • THEN, miraculously, or fortuitously, or, at least, with GREAT TIMING, we learned of a co-sponsored, government-funded program designed to:
    • encourage and support the development of creative and collaborative partnerships between artists and arts organizations in the performing arts sector in the UK and Canada.
    • initiate challenging and inquisitive conversations, exchange ideas and practices and develop ambitious, creative research and development projects that can offer the first steps for collaborations and productions between Canada and the UK.
  •  HMMM… our brows knitted across the cold North Atlantic, and we wondered about PROVIDENCE and other ports and harbours on or above the 49th parallel. A bit more specifically:

The program aims are:

  • To fund collaborative and sustainable creative projects that can deliver long-term benefits for the performing arts sectors in both countries
  • To increase cultural exchange opportunities between UK and Canada, allowing for more artist mobility and international opportunities
  • To share best practices and networks through exchange, to increase skills, develop ideas and new artistic vocabulary between professional artists and organizations
  • To support visibility and representation of voices and a diversity of dialogues in the performing arts sector
  • To support research, development and creation, and seed support for future collaborations and productions

And that’s where I, my story, “The Bottom of the Sky”, and my friend the produced screenwriter and general all-around nice bloke reinitiated our plan to collaborate!

NOW, we are looking for a registered not-for-profit organization-group-guild in Canada or the UK and Ireland, to knit up this ravelled sleeve and turn my fictive literature into a script for the screen. 

Please contact me if this knits your brow, your sleeve or any other unknitted item appropriate for polite company. We await your potential collaboration to MAKE APPLICATION FOR FUNDING as we LEAP FROM TREE TO MIGHTY TREE… together.

November 18, 2018 DEADLINE

Seriously, this is a dead-set brilliant opportunity, so please respond if you are part of a non-profit or know someone who is!  mtoews55@gmail.com

 

allfornow, friends,
Mitch

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The Bottom of the Sky (Dos)

Here’s a fast literary, “Guess what!” in case you were just waiting for some random information from the noireal. My short story trilogy, “The Bottom of the Sky”, is Fiction on the Web‘s Pick of the Month.

movie poster tbots 2
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The bottom of the sky is where allegiances collide: a charter boat owner, the ship’s captain, and a young deckhand. When an act of needless violence plays out on the waters of Acapulco Bay in 1955, simple lives are pushed off course, perhaps to be lost forever.    
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Note that “Part 2” appeared as a solo piece in Rhubarb Magazine back in 2016 as “The Fisherman’s Story”. I had to find out more, so I wrote the prequel and the sequel.
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FotW is a London based literary site, the first of the species, to be exact – publishing online since 1996!
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P.S. – It’s been suggested that this trilogy might lend itself well to a screenplay conversion. What do you think? “CUT!” or “That’s a wrap!”? 
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sailfish
allfornow friends,
Mitch
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The Bottom of the Sky (Uno)

London is calling! Great news from England. My trilogy, “The Bottom of the Sky”, will be published in Fiction on the Web. Editor Charlie Fish read the three-part short story at my request to critique and assess. Normally, FotW does not run stories longer than two or three thousand words, but Charlie has begun to consider lengthier pieces.

“I’ve increasingly been publishing longer pieces (to the considerable detriment of my time, but mostly totally worth it), and this would just about fit into one release.”

– Writer, Editor, Screenwriter – Charlie Fish.

“The Bottom of the Sky” began as a single short story that was published by Rhubarb Magazine in Winnipeg. (Now sadly out of publication.) “A Fisherman’s Story” ran in issue 39, back in September 2016. My thanks to Editor Bernice Friesen who was kind enough to give me my first fiction opportunity in print. Ink!

It was exciting but the full story including the things that had happened to me, or those I had witnessed, the experiences that triggered the story in the first place, remained untold. So too, the many circumstances — both causal and consequential — that I imagined continued to nag at me.

I wrote “A Fisherman’s Story” in 2014. During January of 2017, I was inspired to complete the story. I wanted to write a prequel and a sequel. The first segment, the prequel, was completed that year: “Part 1 – The Mismaloya — Acapulco, 1955”

Part 1 introduces the chief characters, Avelino and Jose, cousins who are partners in a charter fishing boat in Acapulco. The cousins are from the tiny fishing village of Mismaloya, near Puerto Vallarta. A young boy, a pinche named Carlos, signs on as a crew member aboard the Mismaloya for a sailfin day trip.

A number of changes were made to the original story and it became, “Part 2 – The Fisherman’s Story — Mismaloya, 1975”. This account tells of Jose and his wife Violeta and their daughter Josefina. The viewpoint is that of Violeta and the reader also is introduced to Matthew, a Canadian Mennonite church volunteer living in the village. There to help build a school, Matthew meets Jose and the two become oddly-matched friends, fishing with handlines in the bay most evenings.

In “Part 3 – Avelino and Carlos — Acapulco, 1976”, Avelino engineers an unexpected reunion and the story concludes near where it began, on the Pacific shore overlooking the bottom of the sky.

All told, the trilogy involved over three years of writing, on and off, the support of freelance editor James McKnight (another Londoner), and the difficult but necessary learning curve provided by numerous litmag rejections. 🙂

Thanks to Charlie Fish, who is a charming and skilled literary friend with roots in NYC, Birmingham and London.

Charlie Fish wrote an award-winning short film that starred Richard E Grant, Warren Clarke, Emilia Fox and Celia Imrie. He hung out with the guy who wrote Pirates of the Caribbean and Shrek. @fishcharlie

 

Charlie is the creator, editor and hard-working jackfish-of-all-trades for Fiction on the Web, the internet’s first online literary magazine. 

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This trilogy has attracted several comments about its suitability as a screenplay. 

Cinema ain’t my jam, but I admit that I had visual—and sometimes cinematic—scene-play in mind as I wrote.

So, if you know a screenwriter looking for an intense, visceral story that can be filmed in one location with a small cast – pass along the Fiction on the Web URL! (Sorry: no bloody chainsaws, no aliens, not a rom-com.)

You can read “The Bottom of the Sky” trilogy on October 22.

Check THIS out too, on Amazon UK-CA-US:

Hint: I’ve got a story in it!

allfornow friends,
Mitch
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And All I Got was this Lousy Poem

That’s right, I had a surprise heart attack, suddenly lying out on the wet gravel of a deserted road and all I got out of it (besides a couple of stents) was…

Well, we’ll see about that. Here’s the poem:

Woman with the Dog’s Eyes

By Mitchell Toews

Uppermost boughs sough with impatience as I stare
Grey fingers stretch up to the arc, branches of a birch gone bare
And these I frame in the quiet now, the tide wheel all but silent
Apocryphal offspring close by me, how? And dear, so dear
Brushwork details unfinished yet, I fear, I fear
Eyes wide I rise with canvas ready, my pigment not yet spent

 

allfornow friends,
Mitch
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The Ins and Outs of Religious Freedom

Jan & I have created a private enterprise to govern our lakeside hut, The SheShed. We have righteously decreed that no person possessing an INNIE belly-button shall be granted entry. “Outies Only,” is The SheShed credo.

“So what?” you say and I agree. We are, after all, a private entity and interdiction from our Outie-exclusive establishment does not pose an injustice, nor cause harm, to the people of Canada nor does it materially interfere with any other individual’s fundamental rights and freedoms. It’s not like our privately-funded SheShed is a law school or a university, for example!

However, if we received a tax exemption because The SheShed was deemed to be a non-profit religious organization, I suppose some people might wonder about the fairness of either our tax designation or our Outie/Innie policy. Some people might object to being forced, due to our tax exemption, to support a greater tax burden. Especially, I expect, the Innie community who would in effect be paying greater taxes so that The SheShed could more easily (with less expense) discriminate against them!

Oh… What about our neighbour’s scandalous Innie-Only club, a den of concave depravity? Could that evil place of debossment be granted religious status too? Equal to ours? (How depressing!)

Anyway, like-minded Outie individuals are welcome to stop by The SheShed and fellowship with us. Muffin tops, button mushrooms, walleyed pike, Vesuvio’s pizza and other protuberance delicacies are always on the menu.

As our slogan says, “We’re All Puffed Up!”

Innies, accompanied by an Outie spiritual advisor, may even drop by on Forceful Fridays when we train our stomach muscles to distend our belly buttons in an appropriate convex manner, as taught by the ancient PITIFUL scripture, “Proper Inner Tummy Inflation and Full Umbilical Loading”. Through rigorous training, even deeply impacted Innies can be reeducated and their possessors deprogrammed, allowing the bodies true, natural Outieness to stand proud, a button—not a pockmark—on their midriff!

Peace-Out! brothers and sisters, or as we conclude in our sacred covenant down at the ol’ SheShed, “NO LINT? NO PROBLEM!”

allfornow friends,
Mitch
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Everyday Fun with U.S. Politics!

Here’s a fun game to play each day when the latest appalling thing shows up to spoil your perfect 7-minute eggs:

#Episode45

#Episode45 is my hashtag game for an imaginary TV series. It’s kinda like “As the World Turns” and “Breaking Bad” combined into a weekly show, featuring some of the daily participants in the CNN – Fox News buffoon-a-paloosa that airs each day on our real TVs.

I have been writing captions for select new atrocities, under the #Episode45 banner. It’s fun and easy. Each day, there’s a new DEPLORABOMBSHELL and you just take it and, wearing your best Dr. Suess/Charlie Chaplin/Seth Meyers absurdist’s garb, turn it into a TV Guide-style episode summary.

episode45

I’ve selected a gangland, ship-of-fools trope for the #Episode45 mob, led by their intrepid kingpin, “Fat Donnie”. New characters come and go every day, just like the real White House. I’ve substituted bocci for golf – a move designed to protect the innocent (don’t want to put anyone off their game) and I also try to not let it get too far beyond the pale.

Awww, shit — who am I kidding!? It’s WAY BEYOND the pale! But, in fairness, it’s not as crazy as the stuff that is going on in the real world.

That’s the beauty, you can’t overdo it.

Anyway, here are the summaries I’ve churned out so far. Feel free to join in and create your own #Episode45isms! In fact, you might want to branch out:

  • Slam the DEMS! #WhataboutthoseE-MAILS?
  • A UK-Vonnnegut-version? #BrexitofChampions?
  • Some Canadian content? #SayItAin’tTRUDEAU?

I’ll leave it with you. Here are my attempts, from oldest to newest:

Fat Donnie and his consig. Pauli the Perm wrap up a summit on neutral turf with rival gang boss, Bareback Vlad. Sean the Lip voices his loyalty to the merger along with ruthless fixer, Mikey “Pastor” Pence. (Repeat)

“The Enemy of My Friend” Fat Donnie considers turning over old adversaries to Bareback Vlad, the handoff to take place on Fifth Avenue. 

Mikey Plaid Jacket is chafed over Fat Donnie’s apparent disinterest. Meanwhile, Donnie and Bareback Vlad plan a second meet, this one at an old girlfriend’s crib: The Playboy Mansion.

“That’s Gonna be Special” Fat Donnie is secretly recorded Vogueing in a spandex catsuit. Cross-town rivals, The Persian Posse, assume Donnie is mocking them and threaten war. Confused, Donnie’s former coffee-boy, “Book’em” Page disavows his bucking video on YouTube. (I know, this one’s pretty weird.)

imwithstupid

 

“I know you are but what am I?” Mikey Plaid Jacket gets peeved at Fat Donnie and his new BFF, BugEye Rudi. Meanwhile, Silent Bob of Five-Oh is putting bigly heat on the gang and Donnie’s putter has turned stone cold.

 

“That’s a gimme!” This weekend, Fat Donnie & “Pastor” Mikey Pence enjoy a little bocci. Pastor Mikey’s job is to keep Donnie’s equipment squeaky clean—and his bocci balls too—and also to nod & gaze adoringly at the back of FD’s head as he plays.

Fat Donnie’s wife, Carmen, reveals her preferences in today’s romp, “I Like Big Butts”. Her favs? CNN, but, “recorded so I zap all dose old people ads.” She’s reading Tapper, listening to Maddow and is a big fan of Mexican soap operas, saying, “so much like REAL LIFE!”

one word

“One Word: Plastics” In this tense episode Fat Donnie moves his investments. “Look, whose gonna fly without that they’re strapped wit a ghost gun? Nobody, dat’s who. Opportunity? Yuge.” Cameo by John Wick.

“The Fall of Vane DeSeet” Sensing a legal dragnet closing fast around him and the gang, Fat Donnie sets up his son, Vane, to take the fall. “I love ya, Vane, boy, but sometimes it takes tough love.” Guest: Hope It Sticks Hicks

Tune into #Episode45 for more hi-jinx, tomf*ckery, and the endless blame, shame, and hard rain that’s a-gonna fall.

 

allfornow friends,
Mitch
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