| lenore angela |
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| Abbotsford, Canada |
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| But Jillie cries this morning because you forgot to come home last night. You phone sobbing from somewhere on the other end of the wire, and you don't quite know where. You're sick, sore and tired of the stink of the stuff and expecting a sympathetic ear but there's none, only my older sister's. Still you can't find your shoes or your steps to retrace them because God only knows where they are. From behind squeezed eyes and cupped hands I whisper, "Hang up, she doesn't belong to you." The taxi driver hammers down the door and gallantly glides you through the hole and you teeter your way to the kitchen in bare feet and a Jillie tail. As you pass, you hand me your purse and say, "Pay the man." So I count out your tab in two-dollar bills, when he hands me your change his knowing eyes tell me thanks kid, but she doesn't belong to you. |
| Excerpt from Giddy Butterfly |
| I am a writer, visual artist and baby clothes designer. My sites are currently under construction but soon I'll have lots more to show you. I'm a new writer and have recently had two short stories published. Giddy Butterfly was first printed in the June 2003 issue of Matrix Magazine, also in this month's first edition of Inspire,the Newton Advocacy Group Society, woman's programs newsletter. And A Year in Siberia appeared in the Dec. 2003 issue of Pottersfield Portfolio. I'm also working on illustrations for a children's story I've written called: Lydia Mae Greene, Rootin' Tootin' Comet Buster. More about that and my greeting cards for children and adults on my link Joe Baby Designs. |
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| Work in progess. Caption below. |
| Still higher they trudged to where sun-peaked clouds swell and even birds refuse to soar. |
Excerpt from AYear in Siberia |
| B.C. people are warm as the sea in summer, their hearts protected by rainforests. When it snows in Vancouver, if you travel an icy patch of road with trees on either side, that patch is always wet, not frozen. I think the roots must stretch across and hold hands under the pavement to keep each other warm. There aren�t many trees in Edmonton, only dirty ice and snow from the sand trucks that daily lay the gritty prairie across their streets to remind their people who they are and where they come from. The trees can�t keep warm, only call to each other from across the river�the great brown river that divides the city in two. I learned to make mashed potatoes and pork chops there, with hot banana peppers on the side. I learned to make apple pie and live without a phone because I rang the bill up too high calling Vancouver, trying to picture the rhododendrons and cherry blossoms along the washed streets, trying to smell the rain. I learned to live in the cold. My new husband said I wasn�t pretty enough and had a funny body, so I joined a gym and signed a two-year contract. Vancouver men loved my body�flowed like water they said, I didn�t have to sign a thing. |
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