Weekly Stories

Thanksgiving vs vegan

My children have been pescetarian for a year and now they have both told me they are interested in going vegan. This has become very popular here on the Westcoast, particularly with teens who have watched What the Health on Netflix. The more I try to encourage moderation and gently discuss how manipulative and incorrect the doc/propaganda flick is – the more passionate they become. They don’t want to create more work for me, but they’d love to explore this. I gently invite them to join us for turkey dinner this Thanksgiving for the cultural experience and tradition but I leave it up…

handling the rejection letter: spider and moth

I took the time to cradle two moths in my hands. One by one, I escorted them outside. Normally I assume their delicate wings will simply crumble with the terror and flight of capture, so I get it over quick and whack them dead with a dust cloth. And…I’ll be honest. I kill to save time. This is a suite, I have guests coming, I can’t dilly dally being all PETA with insects. But today their delicate hope, pressed against the window pane, moved me. “The outdoors is there. I can feel it. I can see it. Perhaps if I…

self promotion and preservation

I have decided to contact a theatre every single day and tell them about my writing. This is terrifying for me. I would rather people just mysterious “hear” about my work, all across the world, and spontaneously produce it. I an not afraid of the word “no”, I am not afraid of criticism, I am afraid of being a nuisance. Isn’t that stupid?! I started with Bob in Manitoba because he’s a very warm and generous man and he likes me and he’s done two of my plays already and he produces a lot of female playwrights. His line up…

cube van girl

On my way into Vancouver a little red vespa pulls up in front of me. A man in his sixties is driving and he has one of those cool brown leather helmets. When his pants hitch up, they reveal beautiful bright blue striped socks. I want to yell out the window, “your socks give me joy!” Everything is winking at me today, who am I kidding? I just drove over the magnificent Lion’s Gate Bridge and through Stanley park all lush and green and sprinkled with young people who all seem to be laughing. The little girl beside me (I’ve…

savouring peach pie

Tonight I made a peach pie I could confidently serve to the jury of Chopped, the queen of England, or the ghost of my grandfather who always said “Bring on the pie” at the end of every meal. I made a peach pie that Bruce Springsteen would write a ballad about and the chorus would include high plaintive keening. I made a peach pie that made me twenty six again in a white sundress when that man crossed the street to give me a single rose for no reason other than I was twenty six and wearing a white sundress….

The Lion’s Den Cafe

Out from an audition and eager for a spot of lunch before getting on the 2:20pm ferry, I pull into a line of restaurants around Fraser and Kingsway, surely one of them has to be open. Los Cuervos, closed, the Savio Volpe, closed, the gluten free – a bakery only, tiny little cafe maybe Jamaican? not fond of jerks, the coffee place pretentious, Les Faux Bourgeois, closed. I pedal back to the Jamaican joint. It’s full, that’s a good sign: the Lion’s Den Cafe. I peek at their menu: Caribbean Japanese food. Well, never heard of that before, must try….

maybe an island

While in the drudgy vehicle parade loading onto the ferry I see a local boy by the pedestrian walkway. He’s eighteen and sporting a new lower half of the chin beard. He’s Robert Sean Leonard with Downs. I often see him on the ferry heading off to high school. On his way home, he sometimes hangs with the other kids and sometimes he’s found a stray traveler to talk to. Always male. He’s usually smiling, chatting away. But today, he’s on dry land. Oh yes. He’s right in front of the “Welcome to Bowen” sign in a dark tasteful hoodie…

pina colada boys

Three young men sit beside me on the patio talking about IT in their button down shirts and their semi casual light coloured pants, having a bite after work. All three of them have all manner of grooming very well attended to: the beards are closely clipped, the hair slicked back, hands are immaculate. These men are single, ringless, and smelling like soapy spice. All in their mid twenties I suspect. I smirk to myself, “Next up in conversation will be Trump or hockey” but no. The fellow on the end starts talking about his girlfriend. “…she lives with her…

when do I stop being a chauffeur?

I iron out the crinkles in my daughter’s crinoline. I am at my ex-husband’s. He’s away. We’re prepping for the big night at his house. I painted these walls. They haven’t changed. I think this colour was called French vanilla. I stare at pictures of his stern relatives from generations past. They’ve dropped off my tree but I can see my daughter’s eyes in that great grandmother. I still love these kitchen tiles. I picked them almost entirely because they were named aubergine. It is my daughter’s finale dance recital tonight. She is in five numbers. She’s the youngest in…

honey

I pull down stars late into the evening. I dismantle a galaxy; it has long since lost its shine. Some tender Mom or Dad had meticulously placed each celestial being on the ceiling once upon a time, to help their baby sleep. “The night is not so dark, little one. There is is always a star to wish upon.” It takes me quite a while to pry the loving gesture out of the stucco’ed sky. I demolish planets and comets and feel like a malevolent god. Out the open window down the street under the moon and mewing through the…

Lucia Frangione