Skin it

The corner store where we shot the shit.

She moved to that island thirty years ago without ever having visited. 

I met her at Fish & Chips - the fish and chips food truck down at Ford Cove.

A super cool woman. 

I'd specifically go down to the Cove to chat with her – 

but mainly off-season. 

Because the tourists were too much for me. 

She also worked stocking shelves and doing cash at the corner store. 

I thought that she was psychic. 

So, I sniffed around when I was with her. 

And she was. 

Folks would come into the Cove and have her choose their 

Lotto tickets. 

They'd line up sometimes six or seven deep. 

I watched them. 

Customer after customer came in with winning tickets. 

Myself included. 

She picked the Set for Life tickets for me. 

I started with winning free plays, then cash. 

Each win increased with each ticket. 

My lucky streak broke when I went against my intuition

that she was psychic 

and got my ticket from another gal. 

I haven't won since - and it's been three years. 

Cove Store under reno '21

We were both at the Nirvana concert at the PNE Forum in '94. 

She was at the front - against the stage and ended up passing out. 

While she was out, she saw seven white horses. 

That's when I knew I was dead. 

She had very cool style. 

We'd talk music, vintage, and jerkoff dudes. 

The eras we'd like to put together, 

the cut of the women's silky nylon 70s blouses, 

vintage Lees 

and why the 90s does 70s worked so well. 

She loved shopping at thrift stores. 

Her Dad owned a clothing boutique in Kerrisdale - similar to Hills. 

igneous rock outcroppings at Ford Cove

No kids. 

We lived in Whistler at the same time. 

1990-92. 

She worked at The Boot pub. 

Our paths most certainly crossed at some point. 

I was probably drunk and told her I liked her outfit or something. 

Shoulder-length blond hair – 

I like to keep it like Kurt's. 

She's edgier than her twin sister. 

A tough cookie. 

I never used to be like this. 

Old drunk dudes hit on her, and she's had enough. 

I'm tired of being nice. 

 - I can relate - 

The Cove

She found a dead sea lion with a perfect hide 

down at Sandpiper Beach. 

I wanted the hide for a rug. 

So she decided to skin it. 

When she was scoping out the situation, 

an old dude came over and told her he'd found it first. 

You're a woman. You don't have the means to skin it. 

They argued. 

He laughed in her face. 

Go ahead and skin it, then. 

She got her knives and started. 

The old dude sat on a log, watched and mocked. 

It took hours. 

She said around the third or fourth hour, 

she'd become so angry at the old dude disrupting 

what was supposed to be a cathartic ritual that 

she lost focus, sliced too hard, and tore through the hide. 

She kept skinning, and the old dude kept mocking. 

You're doing it wrong. 

By the end of the day, she had the hide. 

I didn't think you had it in you. 

She told me that whenever she looks at that 

tear in the sea lion's hide, 

hatred boils inside her.

 

Earth 88

Hidden Beach Summer 2021

Virtually all students of the extinction process agree that biological diversity is in the midst of its sixth great crisis, this time precipitated entirely by man. 

Edward O. Wilson, Harvard University, 1988 

You're already trying to hang on day by day by a mere thread. 

Then, the air thickens, suffocating you; your veins expand, your hands and feet balloon, 

and dizziness engulfs you. 

Yet, you must stay focused, not for yourself but for your dying cat. 

You must ensure she's comfortable and at peace.

Make sure she doesn't have a heart attack -

that would seal her fate. 

If that happens, there's no help. 

No vets and no escape from the island. 

You'll have to end your soul mate's suffering yourself. 

I had so much anxiety during the Heat Dome I thought I was going to collapse. 

When nature turns against you, survival is the only instinct. 

Your mind races, desperately seeking solutions. 

What do I have to do? 

How can I cool down? 

How can I lower my heart rate?

When I found the dead house sparrow on my deck, 

I knew the tide had turned, and I had to leave. 

I buried the little bird, wrapped in a shroud of paper towels, 

on a bed of flowers from my garden. 

The little bird now rests beneath a mound of rocks 

at the foot of the cedar tree on the East side of my property. 

The cedar, whose branch once danced across my yard 

like a wayward broomstick during a winter storm. 

One of two remaining cedars on my property. 

The cedar that stood beside the three Douglas Firs, 

where Flo and I drank morning coffee. 

My yard mainly consisted of conglomerate rock and salal roots, 

which made digging the grave for the little bird difficult. 

I knew Flo would die soon. 

Where would I bury her?

The Raven

Raven at Galleon Beach Feb 2021

A white raven flew in front of my car while I headed up HWY 19 past Qualicum Beach. 

The bird seemed to glide. 

Its wings pressed against its body as it floated past my windshield.

A surreal experience I took as an omen.  

It was the early morning of Friday, August 13th, 2021, and I was on my way back from Vancouver after 

unsuccessfully trying to secure a place to live. 

When I arrived home an hour later, my cat was dying. 

Hwy 19 where I saw the white raven

The monarchs of the island. 

The ravens were a constant fixture on my property, yet I hardly saw them. 

I knew they were there. My silent companions.

Watching me. I could feel them. 

I'd hear their deep gargling call and look into the Firs, yet see nothing. 

I talked to them every day. 

I asked them to give me a hand in the yard, 

asked them questions, 

and expressed my overall exasperation with my situation. 

They often blew by me, just overhead. 

I wouldn't see them coming; they'd just blow by. 

Gone before the sound of the broken air faded. 

In early September, a week before I left the island, a raven came to me in my yard. 

It sat in the grand cedar that guarded the grave of the little bird that died in the heat dome. 

On the tree's lowest branch, it sat unobstructed, watching me. 

It was lunchtime, and I was at the picnic table my dad built for me. 

My heart was heavy with grief. 

Grief over the loss of Flo. 

Grief that I had to sell the home that I loved. 

Grief that my dad was given just a few months to live 

and grief that the pandemic still raged.

The raven sat motionless. 

We looked each other in the eyes 

Hello. It's nice to finally meet you. Would you like to join me for lunch? 

 ~This ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling ~

My dad built me the picnic table and benches. I had to leave them behind.

I'd brought out stuff to make an avocado sandwich, but I'd forgotten my napkin in the kitchen. 

I told the raven not to eat my lunch while I went back inside. 

When I returned - no more than thirty seconds later, 

all that remained of the avocado was the spotless pit. 

The tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, cheese, and bread – all still there. 

I was confused by how fast the theft happened. 

I'd left numerous meals outside unattended, and nothing was ever touched. 

I went to the cabin to get another avocado. 

When I opened the door, the raven landed atop it. 

I'd experienced so many unexplainable things during my time on Hornby that 

nothing shocked me anymore. 

I smiled at the bird. 

Did you fly in from the Night's Plutonian shore? 

I almost expected it to answer, Nevermore to my obvious Poe reference. 

Unafraid, the raven perched on my open door, watching me in the kitchen. 

He didn't flinch as I made my way out back to my lunch.

Facing the bird while I ate, I asked him about his day,

his thoughts and

whether that was the first avocado he'd tried.

He didn't move his eyes from me. 

It'd be a lie if I said I wasn't a bit nervous. 

A sound in the woods made me briefly turn my head from our conversation. 

I turned back, and the raven was gone. 

leaving

During my last few days on the island, 

I looked for my silent companion, 

talked to him, 

and called out to him, 

but there was nothing. 

The day to leave my home had come —my final goodbye. 

Holding back tears, I locked the door the raven had perched on, 

put the key under the mat and 

headed out the side gate. 

The raven landed atop. 

My heart dropped.

Knowingly, we looked into each other's eyes, 

My friend. Thank you. 

I walked over to my car parked at the driveway gate, 

and the raven followed. 

He perched atop the gate. 

I got in my car and backed out of the driveway for the last time.

The raven watched me as I pulled away.

You're Trying to Kill Me

 

Grassy Point, Hornby Island

She told me about her nightmares. 

Almost every night, she dreamt she was locked in jail. 

Someone was trying to kill her, and she couldn’t get out. 

It’s quite apparent what that dream is indicative of. 

For 40 years, she’s lived on that island. 

A very scared and nervous human. 

Extremely thin. 

Perhaps in her early 70s.

Was a professional ski racer. 

She got a white puppy during the pandemic. 

Her garden is massive, and she’s known for her green thumb. 

She has a Master’s in counselling psychology. 

And went through a particularly nasty divorce twelve years ago. 

He still lives on the island. 

Taunts her. 

Her new partner (who gave me bad vibes) recently moved in with her. 

Apparently, that’s what the men do on the island. 

Unmotivated shleps go there with a purpose – to find lonely women, woo them, move in with them – and freeload while they 

proceed to drink their faces off. 

I was warned many times by the women on the island to 

stay far away from all the men. 

They’ll use you all winter and take off in the Spring. 

Keep your blinds closed - you’re blonde. 

If you date any of these losers, we can’t be friends anymore.

I’m quite sure I heard a story or two about all of them. 

Gossip? 

Perhaps, but at least I was prepared if they approached me. 

In the summer of 2021, she and I were out for a hike up Heliwell, and she asked, You’re vaccinated, right? 

No. 

I shit you not, she ran away from me. 

Crazed, shouting over her shoulder,

You're trying to kill me! 

She started crying. 

Don’t tell so and so (her partner.) He can’t know I was with you! He can’t know! 

She then asked me to tie my jacket

around my face

for the remainder of the hike. 

I didn’t. 

I told her to walk ahead if she was uncomfortable. 

When we were about to get in her car, she said, 

I don’t think you should get in the car. 

Alright. 

Well, it might be okay if you tie the jacket around your face, keep your head out the open window, and don't talk. 

We drove home. 

Me being the asshole with my head sticking out the open window and her wearing three masks. 

I chose not to engage with her again. 

Her comments were ignorant and unstable.

The day I left, she came to say an awkward goodbye. 

But no apology. 

I gave her some puzzles and said farewell. 

It was sad because I thought she was level-headed – and a friend

Milky Way Orgasms

 

Darren asked me, 

Were you ever scared? 

It was the first time anyone asked me that question, and I had to think about it. 

I certainly had to be scared a few times – but I couldn't remember any. 

I did, however, remember the moment I realized that fear is an illusion.

 

It was about 3 in the morning. I woke up and decided I wanted to sit outside. 

I'd sat on my deck at night but never further than my wifi would allow. 

Because I like using the Sky Guide app 

That night, I woke with an urge to sit on the cold, 

late September ground in the back 40.

The Milky Way usually 

hung above my yard like a mobile, 

its purply blue halo dripping trails of twinkling silver, 

but tonight, it was absent.

I gazed up beyond the layers of stars to infinite black dust.

I peered into the night into the depths of the forest's exhilarating darkness.

From the corners of my eyes, I noticed shadows of various depths of black brush by me.

I focused, and they were all around me - 

moving like pedestrians on a noon-hour sidewalk.

Rhythms of various degrees of warmth moved the cold air, 

and I fought the urge to get up and run. 

I thought about orgasms, 

the exhilaration of waiting and the pure ecstasy of release. 

I fingered my memory for a quote from Poe but only came up with Shakespeare. 

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 

I pushed myself to stay – to wait and see what would happen. 

I sat in the night as the shadows moved over and around me. 

I didn't exist. 

I envisioned my heavily treed property in the daylight. 

I rationalized - these aren't bears or rapists or cougars because 

there are no predators on the island. 

I hypothesized the viability of shadows thrown on a moonless night. 

I concluded that what I was experiencing was the unknown. 

How could I fear it if I didn't know what it was? 

Fear, therefore, was irrational, an illusion.

To quote Roosevelt, There's nothing to fear but fear itself. 

Instead of running, I waited, embraced the unknown and released the fear. 

I was overcome with emotion and an ecstasy of the purest form. 

I thought I had seen the full depth of darkness until I saw shadows dancing within it. 

My friend came to stay with me for some October 31st shenanigans. 

We sat around the fire in the backyard until the last ember burned 

and the treetops melted into the night sky. 

On our way back to the cabin, the shadows emerged. 

I didn't say anything. 

Dude, what the fuck is that? Seriously, what the fuck! 

I still smile thinking about that night. 

That's the unknown. Just welcome it in and ride it out.

My bunkie at night

Serrano 911

the rig

Dave was the first person I met on the island. 

My confidant and protection. 

If anyone even looks at you wrong, tell me. 

Drills wells, but his rig constantly breaks down. 

Uses a dousing rod to find water. 

Apparently, there’s an anger management problem, but I never noticed.  

Norwegian and Metis. 

Dave and me and Roy, standin’ around shootin' the shit. 

The three of us would talk about the imaginary Viking crusades we went on. 

Dave was quite adamant they were real. 

Sperm donor

Personally escorts the unwanted from the island. 

No one wanted them here. It was time for them to go. 

Told me a thousand and five hilarious stories, such as: 

This one time, I picked serrano peppers in my neighbour’s garden. 

Then I picked my nose and got a bad nosebleed. I had to go to the hospital. 

Now, I have a deviated septum because I picked my nose. 

We spoke in the language of crude. 

Occasionally, trying to out-crude each other. 

He has a few daughters. 

All of them have it together and are beautiful, accomplished humans. 

When I’d tell him about a guy I was interested in 9/10 times, he’d say, 

So, he has no skills. 

There was some sort of dude animosity between him 

and a particular gentleman friend. 

It was fascinating to witness. 

He’s a large man, maybe 6’4” and 300 lbs. 

Loves animals. And has a new kitten. 

His girlfriend is compassionate, kind and friendly. 

She swims back and forth to Denman to raise money for island charities. 

Sometimes, I’d go help him out on gigs he had. 

Passing wrenches and scrap wood around. 

But usually, it was just to give my opinion. 

Does this look like shit? Good enough. 

His girlfriend would bring lunch.

 

He wears a dirty head scarf, and his long blond hair‘s always in a ponytail. 

His sweatshirts are filthy and always too short. 

He drilled the well on my property and tried to convince me to drink the water. 

You won’t get beaver fever. Just try it. It tastes like rotten eggs with bubbles. 

Psychic. 

It sucks most of the time. Doesn’t it, Stace? 

He used to work up North in the oil patch. 

Drinks a lot. 

I have it under control. 

Favours Jamaican rum. 

He was born on the island. 

His Dad, Pops, recently passed away. 

His mom still lives in the house where he was born. 

He had four brothers, but two died. 

A good friend to me. 

He’d drop by every so often just to make sure I was ok. 

You went silent, Stace. 

He made a moving crate for my 40-year-old Ficus 

He helps people in the community, but most are standoffish 

They’d ask me, Can you talk to Dave about…? 

An absolute slob but a good guy with a heart of gold. 

We sat on the hood of his pickup and drank a goodbye toast, 

a two-six of Jamaican rum.

Power Outages, a Wig and Some Snow

 

Hidden Beach, Hornby Island

I was bored that first February on the island. 

I made my first dating profile. 

Then the power went out for two days and I forgot about the profile.

That first February, when it snowed nine inches, 

the pump for my cistern broke and 

I had no water for a week. 

No way on or off the island. 

It was a long weekend, and the ferries broke down. 

OUT OF ORDER. 

That time I slipped down the entire flight of stairs from the loft. 

That time I bought a long brown wig and thought about changing my identity.

The first time I saw a river otter in my yard, I thought it was a pheasant. 

That time Joan ran from me after she accused me of trying to kill her. 

That time at the depot when Jason asked me if I smoked weed, gave me an empty Costco cashew container and 

directed me to the two contractor bags full of fresh bud in 

the back seat of his beat-up pickup. 

I gave the weed to friends on the Coast. 

Those times at night, crying myself to sleep in a king-size bed that wasn’t mine. 

Mornings with Flo. 

Her meowing when the coffee was ready. Asking me to come downstairs. 

“Mommy, coffee’s ready!” 

She gave me a reason to get out of bed. 

The cat with the toupee and Hitler moustache that would spy on me from the absent neighbour’s yard. 

The blind old man in his mobility scooter with his fat, smiling, yellow lab 

That yellow dog always made me smile. 

He reminded me of my childhood dog Gus. 

That time I asked my neighbour to come sit with me for a while. 

That first time, the power went out for fifteen hours. 

I was not prepared—no water, food or means of cooking. 

That first time I sat by the campfire in my backyard, eating popcorn and drinking hot chocolate- it started to snow. 

The time backing out of my driveway, hitting a tree and knocking the driver’s side mirror off my car - 

six months of a bread bag duct taped around the dangling remnants of mirror and wires. 

And the other time the power went out, I had to melt snow in a bucket by the fire, 

but the fire melted the bucket. 

That day you can tell winter is finally over.

So Long, Marianne

My bunkie on Hornby

I could hold your hands in the dark and show you how it felt. 

I listened to The Songs of Leonard Cohen 171,936 times in 796 days. 

I knew my cat would die while So Long, Marianne played. 

And she did – on day 796. 

1032 days later, I played it again, for the first time. 

I got as far as Come over to the window, my little darling. 

Transcendent. 

Nobody knows. Nobody knew. Nobody’ll know. 

My cat and I watched each other die. 

Now, so long, Marianne. It’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.

Flo and Leonard Cohen

Expectations vs Reality

 

Tribune Bay, Oct. 2019, Hornby Island

Expect to tell the time by the speed of the internet. 

Eat a lot of leftover frozen chilli. 

Exceed the number of days not washing your hair. 

Search out other humans to make sure you're not the last person on Earth.

Mumble. 

Swear a lot.

Piss in a bucket beside your bed. 

Complain, suck it up, do it again. 

Ask yourself questions like, 

“I believe in ghosts. Why don’t I believe in aliens?” 

Be friendly even though you’re in the worst mood of your entire life. 

Expect not to see or speak to anyone for days and then

try to remember how to have a conversation. 

Identify irrational fear. 

Motivate yourself by asking, 

“What are you going to do, just lay there and die?” 

Deal with incompetence. 

Allow insults to roll off your back.

The Satanic Majesty's Request

My one-room cabin on Hornby

He looked down at me every morning with a side-eye smirk.

Satan, with his bug-eyed hellhound always by his side. 

I reached out to him, my hand touched the pine ceiling, 

and he faded into the dark knots of the wood slats above me. 

I tried to sit up. 

My head smacked the low ceiling, and I collapsed down. 

Rolling onto my side, 

a mattress spring dug into my hip. 

A garbage bag tacked over an open window 

blew softly in and out. 

A sliver of light sliced through the forced darkness, 

throwing a spotlight on a spiral of floating dust. 

I watched the dust swirl 

while my breath aligned with the movement of the garbage bag. 

Inhale in the dark, exhale in the light - 

in for four, out for four.

My eyes dropped to a red plastic bucket under the window, 

a scream from downstairs shattered the air, 

and I shot out of bed.

The morning scream came daily and belonged to 

my deaf twenty-one-year-old cat Flo. 

It was my reminder to get out of bed and move on from 

my fixation with smirking demons 

casting judgment from above. 

Careful not to fling its contents, 

I grabbed the bucket and crouched along 

the wall to the stairs. 

The loft stairs were a hazard. 

They floated, didn’t have a railing and were too steep. 

Tilley and the stairs from hell 2019

Flo had watched me and her sister Tilley (now deceased)

fall from the loft and decided a downstairs bedroom was more her speed. 

On one of my first nights in my place, 

I took a late-night slip-and-slide tumble down the stairs. 

I crashed on a wicker chair, 

tipped it over onto a side table, 

knocked that over, 

and broke a ceramic lamp against the wood-burning stove. 

From that night on, 

the red plastic piss bucket 

took up permanent residency 

under the garbage bag window 

beside the mattress on the floor. 

Stair by stair, I sat my way down. 

I remembered the morning prior when 

I'd leaned too heavily on the bucket, 

spilling the contents. 

I watched 

my night's piss 

flow down 

the steps 

and 

seep into 

the grains of 

the unfinished pine stairs. 

It made me think of fish ladders at the Capilano River Hatchery. 

In three hundred and fifteen days, I'd tell my realtor that the piss stain

was Lemon Balm and Chamomile tea, 

a gift given upon Flo's death from a philosophy prof 

turned red seal electrician.

my bedroom - with evil pine knots in the ceiling

Electric Chocolate Lilies

my studio on Hornby

He was a philosophy prof at Berkeley during

the Vietnam War 

but left once the protests started. 

When I asked him why, his answer was, 

 “For the same reason you did.” 

He came to wire my studio for a kiln - 

the Berkeley professor turned red seal electrician. 

While he worked, we spoke. 

Breakfast until dinner -

he’d sit in his car at lunch. 

Academic freedom. 

The commodification 

of 

counterculture. 

fir and fungus

During these talks, I’d think of my university buddy 

Barry and his mocking tease, 

“You want to touch his brain,” 

I couldn’t say it wasn’t true. 

A precise man of slight stature with long grey hair,

down the middle of his back- 

and always in a ponytail. 

50 years moving between Denman and Hornby. 

Married twice. 

A bit of a loser for a son. 

zinnias

He’s kind, compassionate and emotionally intelligent. 

An “amateur expert” botanist. 

He spends days on end collecting native plants

from North Island mountains 

and from the side of Hwy 19A. 

His property is filled with his fifty-year collection - 

an herbal tea garden, his prize. 

I gave him bushels of my peppermint. 

It’s invasive. He didn’t grow it. 

He asked my Venus and laughed knowingly when I said 

Scorpio. 

A friend, who also wanted to touch his brain, 

told me he used to lead naturalist hikes around the island. 

On his last day of wiring, he asked me if I’d ever seen

chocolate lilies. 

I said, No

the castle house

He recited what I thought was a Wordsworth sonnet. 

When I heard the castle house, I realized he was giving me

directions from heart. 

When my cat died, he brought me a tin of Lemon Balm and Chamomile tea 

from his garden.

Norsk

My car, my yard, some snow. Hornby Island Winter 2021

Articulately rough around the edges and well dressed. 

A best pal and kindred spirit. 

He lived on the waterfront across from me - on four properties side-by-side. 

We’d sit on my deck and drink putrid bile beer, 

"But hey, at least it’s cold." 

A talker 

and a tall Norwegian 

who said inappropriate things. 

From Crescent Beach. 

He loved genealogy and knew more about my ancestral family than me. 

I’d often see him when I was out for long walks, and we’d continue on together. 

He’d point, "There’s a Norwegian!" 

We’d draft blueprints for utopia and tactics for coups, 

But it’d be unsustainable. 

Me and Dave and Roy standin’ around, shootin’ the shit,

We fought Viking battles together,

spiced rum

nodding in unison.

His brain held a lot of information. 

Kirby, his water dog, was always by his side. 

A retired public servant, horticulturist and genius who knew everyone. 

Married with two adult daughters and two granddaughters. 

He took his elderly father to Norway for one last visit. 

A lovely human and a dear friend who helped me keep it together. 

A fellow city escapee staying on the island during the pandemic. 

We compared island gossip, 

the outsiders, with insider knowledge. 

When he died, his daughter called me.

Expresso

Hornby Island Community Radio

He's socially awkward and handsome, and his front teeth are broken. 

Super smart, with a penchant for salmon burgers – 

But only the Costco ones.

A card-carrying Green, 

Because I can't vote anarchy. 

We awkwardly problem-solved together. 

As per my buddy Dave, 

Don't you two start trying to fix shit. You'll fuck it up even more. 

In the summer, he wore high black socks with sandals and questionable shorts. 

By appearance, he wore the same t-shirt for 365 days. 

I like this design. I bought all of them. 

He lived in the forest down the road from me. 

A trailer in the middle of a meadow. 

I'm just a guy living in a meadow in the forest. 

56 

Originally from Ontario. 

Years ago, he and his girlfriend ended up on Hornby after they finished a tree-planting gig. She left after a few months.

He has a show on community radio every Wednesday - 

The Phlip Side with Phil. 

He's corny, likes to read and has no patience for pop culture or movies. 

Particularly Game of Thrones.

We bonded over expresso in red neon cursive. 

It just works faster.

He taught me about every tree on my property—the cedars, the firs, the arbutus —what they like and don't like and whether they'll survive the next ten years. 

He humoured me while I waited to make sure I didn't go into anaphylactic shock the first time I ate huckleberries from my yard. 

He delivered the water that kept me alive. 

I gave him my jade plants when I left Hornby because I knew he'd look after them. 

In a parallel universe, they're thriving.

When my cat died, he came over and told me stories about his dog, who'd moved to the island with him thirty years prior. 

Cigarettes and Strawberry Incense

Wearing a summer dress and carrying a bottle of prosecco, I knocked on her front door around 5.

A few hours before I moved into my cabin, her friend helped me clean crap out that the previous owners had left behind. We had a few good laughs, and she invited me to join a bunch of them for a BBQ and a few games of ping-pong over at her friend’s place. Not knowing a single soul on Hornby, I summoned some courage and decided it was time to loosen up my armour. 

The front door opened. There she stood. Her ice-blue eyes were emotionless, save for the aura of hatred that pierced me. I introduced myself and tried handing her the bottle of prosecco—which she ignored. I waited for a hello, an introduction, a thank you, or for her to invite me in. Nothing. 

I stood there feeling like a deer mouse, an asshole, a loser. 

She stood defiant. 

Should I stay, or should I go? 

A shadow approached from behind her: a handsome man in his early 50s with black hair and the same ice-blue eyes. He smiled graciously and invited me in. I followed him down a dark hallway, and she followed me. Her stare burned the back of my heels and between my shoulder blades. 

The house was a haphazard array of dusty knickknacks, faded photos, and dried-up plants. Every pot, pan, dish, and utensil was caked with week-old food and strategically stacked on the kitchen counter like a game of Tetris. Strawberry incense and cigarette smoke hung heavy off the air. Within three steps, I knew that, absolutely, this was a witch's house. 

The man summoned me to a worn-out cushioned bench alongside a massive old oak table littered with half-empty red wine glasses, overturned bottles and bags of weed the size of throw cushions. I tried again to give her the bottle of prosecco, but she turned her back on me. Her friend who I shared the laughs with a few hours before, was nowhere to be seen. Smoke and dust obscured a figure sitting in a high back chair at the head of the table. Still holding the bottle of prosecco, I slid along the bench until I was beside the figure. A woman in her 60s with waist-length blond hair smiled, held out her hand and introduced herself. 

The man I gathered was the son. He accepted the bottle from me, passed it to his mother, whose eyes still hadn’t left me, and asked her to open it. He slid along the bench and sat beside me. I was sandwiched between two strangers in a strange home on a strange island in the middle of nowhere. 

I attempted small talk as the matriarch opened the bottle of prosecco. She poured some into her glass, still holding remnants of red wine, and took a sip, 

“Who drinks this shit?” 

She poured the entire bottle of prosecco over the sink full of dirty dishes. 

I’d had enough of her. 

I stepped out of my armour. 

The sun broke through the dank house, and I saw her clearly. 

Her ice-blue eyes held the faintest flecks of what once was. 

A powerful woman beat down by booze and abuse. 

She steadied herself against the counter, dropped her eyes and let me look at her. 

I felt the strength of the woman beside me and the gentle power of her son. 

Outside the windows, the earth buzzed. Inside, all had stopped. 

She raised her eyes to mine, pulled herself over to the table, sat down across from me and lit a cigarette. 

When my cat died, she brought over a bouquet of white hydrangeas from her garden she brought back to life.

X-Acto Knives and Pink Pomeranians

Ford Cove, Hornby Island

That day at the depot, slicing mattresses with an X-Acto knife, 

he told me he felt guilty for being alive.

Shirtless, leathery and over-tanned,

shiny found objects hung from cords around his neck,

brushed his nipples and grazed his ribs.

His pants, skintight and zebra print,

I’m charming, a recovering junkie and an alcoholic. I’m 56, and I shouldn’t be alive.

A chipped Christmas ball dangled from his earlobe.

Thirty years ago, he had a dream he was a character on Hornby, so he quit his diving gig and left North Van.

I’m a talker. I just hung around long enough until someone eventually gave me a job.

His Pomeranian is pink, 

I think she might be a little disabled.

He grows weed and free dives.

The cops just leave me alone.

He asked me who I was with and told me I looked like I’d seen some shit.

When my cat died, he brought me a black garbage bag full of weed.