Flash Fiction - Torrents and Torments

I was so pleased and honoured that this story – a flash fiction – was considered for the annual Iceland Writers Retreat flash fiction competition (Dec. 11, 2017). It didn't win  and there was no shortlist, but it was fun to try (I'll post the name of the winner and a link to their story when the convenors do). The prize was worth the effort, a chance at a tuition-free writing retreat week in Iceland (April 11-15, 2018)!

The competition was on a theme of waterfalls and limited to 500 words - a tough but enjoyable challenge. Anyway, now I am able to share my story, a later version of which was long-listed for the 2018 Tarbert Book Festival's flash fiction competition. I've added a couple of links for your further edification. Enjoy.

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Torrents and Torments

“Don’t fall!” she always says.

Words of encouragement? Or textbook redundancy, like “try not to get hit by a car”?

“Don’t push,” I always tease in reply.

Stepping back from the brink of our latest conquest, I clapped my hands in the time-honoured style and reached for my notebook.

“Bagged,” I pronounced.

“Not yet. Take the picture.”

“Make the picture,” I corrected – again.

‘Bagged’ is a term adopted by diarizing hill-walkers in Scotland. To ‘Bag’ a Munro, like bagging game on a hunt, is to have walked or climbed one of Scotland’s many peaks of a certain elevation. Named for— well, Google it.

We bag waterfalls, my love and I. It began early in our relationship, after a romantic picnic overlooking spectacular Helmcken Falls in British Columbia, the pounding, pulsing roar symbolic of the rush of our passions. We were one with the thundering torrent, the breathless, pulsing plasma of pounding hearts.

We’ve recorded waterfalls on trails and highways in Canada, America, Scotland, Germany and now Iceland. We’ve swum naked in pools beneath the veils of broad falls, the cool waters failing to quench our passion. We’ve made love beside remote rapids, our young bodies conforming to the smooth rocks.

In our home, photographs of children and family are interspersed with those of waterfalls, some of which likely had a role in the making of those children. Sometimes just those waterfall photos kindled the flames of desire and exploration.

Over time, though – as kids grew and we aged – the frequency of our trips to falls decreased. As the photos get dusty, the falls are fewer and the trips more laborious.

The once-energizing hikes toward the crescendo of cataracts are of shorter duration and are less adventurous – closer to the road, so to speak. Sometimes the hike proves too tedious altogether and we don’t make it to the falls. I can’t remember the last time we bagged a big one.

Patience for the trips has declined in proportion with patience for each other. At times, I’m a little taken aback that we have come to resemble one of those cranky old couples on television – funny and sad, not going anywhere, unable to resist occasional hurts disguised as reminders or corrections in not-so subtle sarcasm, a drawn out game of insults.

I don’t keep score, but it’s like we get some satisfaction, a little emotional rush, out of the deepening digs at each other’s dignity – where once we cuddled and coddled and took pleasure in little things, we now take pleasure in little antagonisms in a downward spiral of insults.

This time may be different, an anniversary trip to bag Iceland’s Svartifoss – the black falls, ironically – to rekindle the passion.

Yet the concussion from the water pounding on broken basalt below feels less like bliss enveloped in the depths of passion, and more like the relentless throb of fatigue.

“Don’t fall,” she repeated as I stepped closer to make the picture.

“Then don’t p—.”

=30=

Rant - A little good news, please

Rant - A little good news, please

Not that I’m a big fan, but one of Anne Murray’s hits in the 1980s, “A Little Good News” (written by Tommy Rocco, Charlie Black, and Rory Michael Bourke), has been playing in my head almost daily of late. “I sure could use a little good news, today,” goes the refrain.
Distracted as we are by politics south of the border and across the pond, the truth is that domestic news stories this past couple of weeks have brought to my mind not just the song, but also Frank Macdonald’s IMPAC Dublin-nominated novel, A Possible Madness (CBU Press, 2012).

Frank is revered for his cutting-edge satire as much as for his priceless (and oh-so-real) characters and for his enduring commitment to Cape Breton, warts and all. His commitment, like his satire, cuts deeply when addressing the injustices of political and corporate hegemony, and A Possible Madness bleeds truth; it’s well worth a re-read.

Take for example the news that a pulp and paper company near New Glasgow, NS, recently applied pressure to a local chain bookstore to cancel a scheduled book signing by the author of a book that outlines the mill’s history from the standpoint of community protests over the years. The legacy of this mill, a major employer and economic driver in the region, has long been in tension with environmentalists and health-conscious residents. The title of the book, The Mill: Fifty Years of Pulp and Protest, by Joan Baxter (Pottersfield, 2017), is self-explanatory. Reaction by the mill’s managers and by people dependant on it for their livelihood is both predictable and passive aggressive. Surely communications professionals have something better to offer the community they purport to prop up? You can read the Chronicle Herald story by linking here.

 

In the same vein, and this is not to compare the scope of Macdonald’s fictional unholy alliance between politics and unbridled capitalism, but rather to recall the rhetoric of “us vs. them” (also the title,and subject, of a great novel by Hugh R. MacDonald – CBU Press 2016), so prevalent in small and undernourished communities.

When citizens are emboldened to think above their station and ask questions of their political and capitalist masters, they are often marginalized, and even vilified.

A revitalized proposal for a rock quarry would hollow out Kelly’s Mountain in the middle of Cape Breton Island—an island, by the way, touted by politicians and bureaucrats as one of the top ten most beautiful places in the world to travel. Islanders went through this quarry thing 25 or 30 years ago too. Now, as then, Indigenous voices are raised in objection, for the mountain is held sacred in Mi’kmaw tradition. Read the news story here.

Not too far away, as the eagle flies, is the seaside community of Donkin, where with great fanfare for nearly twenty years a submarine coal mine has been revitalized, despite global calls for an end to extracting coal as a combustible resource. Years of community support for the mine came to a grinding halt recently, when it was revealed that the mine’s owners now want to do sonic seismic testing along the coast—we gather to gain a better understanding of the subsea geology, and thus a better understanding of the risks to men and machines working below the sea floor. But the chosen manner of the testing is proven, sufficiently for some, to harm marine life—and is thus a threat to the livelihood of lobster fishers in that area. Their fears have, of course, been marginalized. You can read the news story here.

About midway between those battlefields, the Cape BretonRegional Municipality has reached a deal—which must be kept confidential to protect its proponents’ interests—to transfer umpteen hectares of harbour-side land to a group of investors who were earlier granted exclusive rights to develop a marine industrial park. That park proposes to include a massive container-handling facility that most residents consider unrealistic and therefore unlikely to come about. Be that as it may, two centuries of more failures than successes on the part of governments and businesses have spawned a populace tired of being spurned. You can link to the news story here.

These latest rounds are invigorated by social media, by which means pundits and pugilists alike rouse and ridicule the ungrateful rabble. You’d think by now local governments and the cabal of development gurus would have a handle on addressing their ideas with people’s ideals.

And finally, for this post at least, in the 21st-century media landscape, no one should have been surprised by the grand newspaper swap between Torstar and Postmedia of umpteen small market newspapers, many of which will now be silenced. Surprised, no. Saddened, yes. You can read that news story here. The death of many of those newspapers will surely mean the death of reporting in those markets. Small or not, newspapers have been vital for getting the news, but also for getting to the bottom of the news. Maybe the song in my head should parody Bob Marley: “no paper, no pry.”

What does this have to do with a work of fiction? Well, the main protagonist in A Possible Madness is a city-trained journalist turned editor-owner of a small town weekly. David Cameron’s journalistic instincts, homegrown ethics, and not a little courage manage to expose to his community an ill-conceived development plan that will ostensibly boost the local economy at the same time it risks the very lives of those it promises to employ and the very survival of the town itself.

No local organ: no voice for the people. Newspapers and broadcast media—increasingly squeezed by diminishing financial returns—have become organs for governments and business. Once proud journalists have been reduced to following up press releases and social media posts as news—not all journalists, of course, and my apologies to those who have to balance their instincts with feeding their families, and a shout-out to those independent media trying to thrive and survive.

All this leads me to my favourite review of Frank Macdonald’s second novel, A Possible Madness. Conflict alert: I was Macdonald’s publisher.

Back in 2013, essayist Wilf Cude, himself a product of a mining town in northwestern Quebec and now a resident of Roberta, Cape Breton, published a profound review of A Possible Madness in The Antigonish Review (no. 172, winter 2013, ff. 119). Cude quotes the great Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn who once opined about the limits of our so-called free speech, the free circulation of ideas. To paraphrase, we are free only by definition; in reality we are “hemmed in by the idols of the prevailing fad.”

“‘[T]he need to accommodate mass standards ... frequently prevents the most independent-minded persons from contributing to public life and gives rise to dangerous herd instincts that block successful development’,” said Solzhenitsynin a speech at Harvard University.

Wilf Cude writes that journalism had schooled the fictional David Cameron that the malign circumstances of “an economically deprived part of the world, preferably sparse in population [is an essential starting point] where rapacious exploitation could be unleased with impunity.”

“A slick web of professional rationalizations” for schemes and talks between corporate interests and governments “ ‘everyone but the people who live here and who will have to live with whatever consequences there are’,” is uncovered by Cameron.

“Dismayingly, [Cameron] encounters one after the other the many subtle obstacles our society has put in place to frustrate any serious inquiry about the truth behind contentious policies.”

“The tiny community of Shean is in truth very real—and is in truth everywhere.”

Art imitating life imitating art – still.

Mike Hunter, December 2017.

Flash Fiction - Barbie and Me

I was so pleased and honoured that this story – a flash fiction – was shortlisted for the 2017 Tarbert Book Festival / Moniak Mhor short story competition (Oct. 27, 2017). It didn't win (that honour went to Sylvia Hehir, from Strontian), but it was a good challenge. The prize was a tuition-free writing workshop week at Moniak Mhor, something I have been dreaming of for ages; I'll just have to pay one year soon.

The competition was of an open theme, including memoire, and limited to 500 words - a tough but enjoyable challenge.

~

Barbie and Me by Mike R. Hunter

“I never had a Barbie,” she said without turning to me as the television extolled the iconic girl-toy – Safari Barbie or Sorority Barbie or something.

I knew they were cash-poor as kids, but I didn’t know she was deprived.

I should have known, of course. She is smart, strong, independent – tough, even. No nonsense. No conforming to gendered stereotypes, a good lover and a good mother. And very real. Decidedly non-Barbie. Not that playing with dolls absolutely reinforces gender expectations. That’s an oversimplification.

Feminism warned us about gendered toys like Barbie, and of Mattel’s unrealistic vision of the North American ideal female form. Of course, we can’t intelligently attribute femininity to a doll any more than playing with action figures (dolls for boys) and toy guns, causes men and women to pursue military and paramilitary careers, or become murderers. Playing with dolls does not a doll make.

I get that. I really do. Clearly, I know the difference. Hurrah for pink Lego, and lavender tool belts. But, things had seemed strained of late – not sure why – and I was anxious to demonstrate that I do listen.

Finding the right Barbie became my mission for the year – her fiftieth, our twentieth. That mission: to satisfy her childhood unfulfilled; to show that I do listen sometimes; to show my romantic side, my insight, my thoughtfulness, my male sensitivity.

Of course, not just any Barbie would do. She had to be a special-occasion Barbie. Unique, elegant, independent, limited-edition Barbie. Not Ironing-board Barbie, but Executive Barbie, if she (it?) could be found. And it’s not easy to find a Barbie doll these days, as though a great shame is associated with what she/it represents.

Worse, this masculine feminism I pride myself with is a double-edged sword that cut deeply while trying to retain my dignity shopping for a Barbie doll. But I heard, and I acted.

Shop after shop, clerk after clerk, a trail of lesser-than dolls in my wake, the pledge became a problem. It got closer to Christmas and I didn’t have any other gift ideas. I became anxious about possible failure.

But, just days before the implementation of Plan B – and there was no Plan B – there she was: Ballroom Barbie. She/it was even dressed in a rich green ball gown that matched the heavy brocade drapes that darkened our home. I think.

As it turned out, instead of looking for Independent Barbie, I should have been looking for Ironic Barbie. Same she/it in a different wrapper.

Christmas morning, my heart beating smugly, the large professionally wrapped gift radiating beneath the burden of my romantic side, the unveiling finally arrived.

“You said you never had a Barbie!” I blurted out prematurely in excitement and pride.

“Because I never wanted a f***ing Barbie,” she pronounced. “You never listen!”

I can still picture her, Ballroom Barbie. Nose-down in the bin, right next to the broken sword of dignity beneath the brittle tinsel of our last Christmas.

=30=

Rant – Second Thoughts, Pathways and Healthways

Rant – Second Thoughts, Pathways and Healthways

October 2017

Is there such a word? Healthways?

We study folkways and foodways, why not healthways?



Uisge Ban Falls, among the highest in Nova Scotia

A few hours on the Uisge Ban Falls Provincial Park trail (near Baddeck, NS) recently left us with mixed emotions.

On one hand – OMG, another great walk we never tire of, and so many people, and of all ages! So many children! Out of roughly forty people encountered between the parking lot and the falls, we guess that half were under the age of ten – and in families of two and three children (yay! that there are breeders among us). And let me tell you, aside from the Skyline Trail (CB Highlands National Park) and the Louisbourg Lighthouse Trail (Fortress of Louisbourg National Historic Site), encountering many people on a trail – even in a banner tourist year like 2017 – is rare. More often than not, we are by ourselves.



When the boys were younger, we dubbed this section of trail as "The Giant's Garden." Here it's almost like the trees fear the boulders will float away.



I call this one Rapunzel.

So many young couples (and a few grandparents) had their children out and about – climbing over rocks, across streams, through mud, throwing sticks, falling down. I wonder if there is truth to the old saw that the families who play together, stay together?

Imagine. Children. Out in nature. Please, please, please, let those parents keep at it for the sake of their family’s future health. You know, Plato’s ideal republic (flawed though some have analyzed or perhaps overanalyzed it) included an education system predicated on physical activity in the early years. I forget the numbers just now, but the upshot is that for the first eleven years education would be devoted only to play, to games and sports.

By this, citizens would build up such a store of health that they would not be a burden on society in their later years. We might extend this beyond games and physical health to environmental health, but that’s another rant.

Given the dollars the health industry is going to suck out of our taxes over the next couple of decades because of health problems that could have been avoided, you’d think we’d be doing everything in our power to “build up a store of health” in young people so the current health debacle is not repeated.

I know it is a sort of Catch 22 situation – the health industry eats up nearly half our tax dollars so there is little left for true health infrastructure (not to be confused with what governments mistakenly call a health care system). Which brings me to my second thoughts while enjoying the walk to Uisge Ban Falls: the bridges are out and the greater portion of the trail is closed.

Now, in fairness it is not easy to deploy resources at a moment’s notice to effect repairs to infrastructure damaged in catastrophic weather events like the October 2016 torrential rains that devastated both built and natural infrastructure across the region. A phone call to NS Dept. of Natural Resources at Baddeck (Victoria County) reveals that a Dept. engineer will assess the Uisge Ban Falls Provincial Park trail situation this fall, with recommendations shortly thereafter and, hopefully, repairs in the spring of 2018. Given the number of years that the North River Provincial Park trail has been in disrepair, we might be suspicious, but I take from my call that traffic to Uisge Ban Falls is such that they have the will to maintain it. The North River trail is a bit different, I was informed that in fact the North River trail is the purview of the Environment Dept. because it falls within a protected area. We need to apply more pressure to ensure that the North River trail gets reopened, and maintained.

In addition, trails built with government monies in partnership with community groups are severely dilapidated or even closed for lack of attention. The once beautiful and still closed Cape Auguet Eco-Trail near Boudreauville on Isle Madame is an example. A severe storm surge about ten years ago ripped up a substantial boardwalk plus smaller ones making the trail partially unusable and impossible for the faint of heart. My understanding is that the trail is officially closed (though people do use some of it) and ownership by its original proponents and managers – Development Isle Madame – have made a request to NS Dept. of Natural Resources (DNR) to terminate their lease. Rumour has it that a well-known writer of hiking guides nearly injured himself while navigating the trail a few years ago, and complained loudly to the municipality, complete with an ominous warning about potential for lawsuits. The trail was promptly closed.

We can forgive the volunteers who build trails like Cape Auguet across the province, but we cannot let government off the hook as easily; the former take their lead from the latter. If no positive example is set, no enthusiasm displayed, why would the citizenry stay committed or motivated?

In recent weeks we have also hiked portions of the Cape Mabou Highland 

View from the ascent to Beinn Bhiorach, Cape Mabou Highlands.

trail system and found it to be recently groomed and well signed. The system was developed by and is maintained by volunteers, with the cooperation of DNR as it includes some conservation and preservation acreage. (BTW, the Mabou Highlands trails are among the most demanding and the most rewarding in the region. You really must try them.) And, again in fairness to DNR, we also recently hiked the Salt Mountain trail at the Whycocomagh Provincial Park and found it to be in really good shape and recently re-signed. Current management practices at the campground notwithstanding.

We need to regard trails – and campgrounds, and picnic parks – as part of the provincial and municipal infrastructure just as much as roads, and hospitals. Perhaps they ought to be considered part of our health infrastructure so we take them seriously.

Study, after study, after study conclude that exposure to the outdoors, to nature – to activities which connect us with nature – benefit our physical and mental wellbeing, to the benefit of society (that’s us, remember us taxpayers?) so that in our higher-earning and our later years we are “not a burden on society.”

There must be ways to sustain, maintain, improve and expand our physical health infrastructure – we need to step up and insist on it for the sake of the health of future generations. How can we collaborate with governments to work toward this end?

∞