Edgy People Read online

  Here’s another tip: when putting together large furniture ensure you have all the pieces before ripping open the plastic. That way when you go back to the store to convince the clerk that you didn’t lose the missing piece, you will be able to demonstrate that the packing material is still intact.

  And don’t worry if you have a few pieces left over when you build that bookcase, as long as the furniture holds together. The extra parts are there to make up for the important piece that wasn’t packed in the first place.

  Another important tip: build the large furniture in the room in which it will remain. That way you won’t have to take it apart again in order to get it into that room.

  One more tip: send your children over to the neighbours before you start any project. Yes, they will say “Mommy told me I had to stay over here for breakfast, lunch and supper because she’s changing the door knob.” But think how much more preferable that is than for them to go over the next day and say “Mommy said #%***$@&&**” when she was changing the door knob yesterday.”

  Magnet this article to your fridge, and happy DIY’ing.

  Rescue

  I’M SITTING ON MY BED crying softly when Robin walks in, doesn’t knock or anything, just walks in like it’s her room. It used to be her room too, and she’s the one who moved out, but it’s like she still thinks it’s her room.

  “What’s the matter, Krissy,” she says.

  I have no idea how she knows I’m in trouble. Mom and Dad’s bedroom is right next to mine, and Robin’s room is way across on the other side of the front room, so I know she didn’t hear me, because if I had been making noise Mom would have been in here.

  Robin and I are identical twins, in looks that is, but not in any other way. It was great when we were kids because we fooled our friends and cousins and teachers. We couldn’t fool Mom and Dad, though; somehow they always knew who was who. It got to be a drag when we were older, because we really are so different. Robin, who is named after a cute little bird, is hard as a rock, and me, Krystal, named after a rock, is as soft as, well, a cute little bird. I think somehow our parents messed up our names.

  That’s not the only difference between us either. Robin is a whizz in chemistry, math and physics. She’s so good at chemistry that she tutors Rocco, the school football quarter back, who is in grade 11, a whole grade ahead of us. And me, I love books and poetry, particularly Wordsworth, and when I read Gone With the Wind I longed to be Scarlett. Of course, I was only 12 then, and now I’m 15 and know better. And I make my spending money babysitting the neighbours “rotten brats”, as Robin calls them.

  When I got tired of being mistaken for my sister, I cut my hair, not too short, just to shoulder length, but Robin left her hair long, and now everyone can tell us apart.

  But I guess that’s how Robin knew I was crying, because we are still twins, despite our differences.

  So I tell her. I trust my sister; I know she won’t judge me, and I know she won’t tell Mom or Dad.

  I tell her how bad I messed up. I tell her how I went to the party at Kevin’s place. It was an awesome party, at first. Kevin’s parents are visiting his older sister in Calgary, waiting for their first grandchild, then the dad is returning to Toronto and the mom is staying to help for a few weeks. So of course it was a great party, with lots of beer and wine, and some other drinks, and the smell tells me that people have been smoking up. I don’t really drink booze, so I was only drinking punch that someone had made.

  “Dufus, don’t you know what people do to punch?” Robin asks me. Well, I guess I kind of did, but I ignored it.

  Anyway, I’ve had a terrible crush on Kevin since grade 7, and he is kind of popular, being the point guard on the basketball team. So when he asked me to come into his parents room and see his basketball trophies, I hesitated only a little. And Jessie, who used to bully me back in grade school, and always brags that Kevin likes her, was at the party, so I thought I would get one up on her and go with him.

  Big, big mistake.

  We sat on the bed and French kissed and cuddled a bit, and then Kevin got pushy, and started trying to feel my breasts. Well, I guess I let him, a bit.

  “Nothing wrong with that. That’s perfectly normal,” my sister says, and I feel a little better.

  But then he said to me to show him my titties.

  “What? He said ‘titties’? Jaysus, you’re not an eff-ing cow,” Robin hisses.

  Only she doesn’t say “eff-ing” but the real thing.

  Then she just looks at me, and I have to say it. I did it. And even worse. Kevin had been fooling around with his cell phone, and when I flashed him—and it was just for a second—he took a picture.

  Now I really start to wail. We hear stirring in Mom and Dad’s room, and Robin calls out to let them know I just have a bad stomach and she has already made me a tea and a hot water bottle, and will stay with me till I feel better.

  But now I have to tell her the worst part. Kevin says he is going to post that picture on Facebook unless I give him a BJ. And I have one week, till next Friday evening, to tell him which it will be.

  “What the fuck?” says Robin, puts her arm around me, and pulls my head to her shoulder. Somehow I feel better. We stay that way for a few minutes. Then she props up the pillows, pushes me back against them and tells me I better go to sleep. She’ll try and figure a way out of this for me. Just as she goes out the door she does the strangest thing. She takes a picture of me with her cell phone. What the hell was that about?

  I feel better for having told someone. Let’s face it, I feel better for having told my sister. She is the least judgemental person I know. When someone at school tries a different fashion, and other people make fun, Robin will compliment that person on their clothes. And when Rocco came out as being gay she didn’t give it any thought. Actually, it seemed like no one did, but when I mentioned this to Robin she told me I was just stupid, because Rocco is six feet tall, and 90 kilos, and the football hero, so who the hell is going to say anything to him?

  The next day is Sunday, and I mope around the house and tell Mom my stomach is still bothering me, so I don’t go out. After that is Monday, and I tell Mom my stomach still hurts and spend the day in bed. Tuesday I do the same thing, and both Mom and Dad are seriously worried because I don’t generally miss school.

  The truth is, my stomach is really upset. I feel like vomiting whenever I think about putting Kevin’s thing in my mouth. But what choice do I have?

  On Wednesday morning, Robin comes into my room, and I gape at her. She’s cut her hair off, cut it off as short as mine. I barely register what she’s saying, I’m so dumbfounded. Eventually I figure out that she’s telling me to get up and go to school, that I can’t stay home the rest of my life. I’ll have to go back and it might as well be today. Also, our parents are probably going to call an ambulance for me if I stay home another day. Somehow I get through the day. I avoid Kevin as much as possible, and when I see him smirking at me, I go red, I put my head down, and walk off as fast as I can.

  Thursday morning, I’m dragging my feet getting ready for school, dreading another day, when Robin walks into my room again without knocking. I really don’t care. I only have today and tomorrow left before I have to blow Kevin.

  “Check your email” says Robin.

  “What?”

  “Just do it.”

  So I do. And there is an email from Robin, no text, just an attachment. I open the attachment, and for a few seconds I don’t know what I’m seeing, then it registers. There is a clear picture of Kevin on some bed, shirt on but no pants, and there is Rocco, one huge arm wrapped around Kevin’s shoulders. Rocco is grinning at Kevin with affection. Kevin’s face is a mixture of surprise and horror. But no one is going to notice his expression. All they are going to see is Kevin in bed with gay Rocco.

  Now I know why Robin took my picture. To have a picture for when she cut her hair to look like me.

  “Kevin thoug
ht you were me,” I say.

  “Yup. He really thought he was going to get lucky. He almost came when I told him to get on the bed and drop his pants. He wasn’t so excited when Rocco came in, though. I had my cell phone ready, and there you go. Your blackmail material is better than what he’s got.”

  I feel a big smile starting.

  “Tell Kevin to suck his own dick” says Robin, “and you owe me $50.00 for the haircut, but I can wait for it.”

  As writers, we normally try to avoid clichés. The following short story contains 56 clichés, in 650 words. With a few more in the rejection letter.

  The Cliché

  I HAD THOUGHT THAT THE job would go smoother.

  We had come full circle in our planning, and like kids in a candy store we thought we would clear the place out lock, stock and barrel. But it turned out that the long arm of the law had been tipped off. They had left no stone unturned, and decided to nip it in the bud.

  This is how it all went down.

  I had suggested that the fact of the matter was that the best time to close the deal would be near the end of banking hours, and when all was said and done, the rest of the gang agreed with me. Billy felt that lunch time, with some of the employees out of the building, was a better time, but in the current climate, the gang didn’t care, in any way, shape or form, how many employees were present. This was my first big heist, my baptism by fire, and I was glad Billy’s suggestions fell on deaf ears. Every dog has his day, and today was my chance to shine. Up till now I had been too shy to make suggestions, but by hook and by crook, I gained some confidence in my planning abilities, and got behind the eight ball. Billy cursed a bit, but everyone knew he had a checkered career, and his successes were few and far between. Although there was never a dull moment when Billy was around, the winds of change were here, and everyone looked to me for the strategy.

  At this moment in time, the gang consisted of people from all walks of life, and if these walls could talk, they would tell a tale with never a dull moment.

  Jake was a good one for thinking outside the box, but others pointed out it wasn’t a level playing field, and he was seeing only the tip of the iceberg. Jake was thick as thieves with Ben, the leader, however, at the end of the day, he decided to leave the group. The rest of the gang decided they were in, hook, line and sinker.

  In the final analysis, we decided to take the path of least resistance, take the tiger by the tail, and go in with guns a-blazing. I was posted just outside the door to deter any cops who might get the bright idea to storm the building. But it turned out that the police had been thinking outside the box. To give the devil his due, they, with the patience of Job, had been hiding out in the building all day, and were now chomping at the bit, just waiting for us.

  When the action began there was a mass exodus of the clients closest to the door. That was par for the course, so I just let them go. For a few minutes all was quiet, but I suspected it was the calm before the storm, and suddenly all hell broke loose. The police opened fire, and several of the gang bit the dust, including Ben, who was shot dead as a doornail. I quickly saw that to all intents and purposes the heist was over, and figured I would not stick around to the bitter end.

  I decided to make good my escape, and walked away just in the nick of time.

  The rest of the gang went to trial, and are now paying the piper. I am sure the sands of time are moving very slowly for them.

  Well, the fact of the matter is that in this day and age bank robbers do not get a fair shake. However, it’s no use crying over spilt milk, and when all was said and done, I saw the writing on the wall. I decided to go into a different line of work and become a writer. I have received my first rejection letter, copied below. It cut me to the quick. However, patience is a virtue, and it is my intention to try, and try again.

  Dear Sir

  The story you submitted was reviewed by several people, and I was nominated to take the hit for the team and write this letter. It is generally a task that I avoid like the plague; however, it is all in a day’s work.

  I regret to inform you that your submission does not fit the bill at this point in time.

  I hate to burst your bubble, and I don’t like to step on anyone’s toes, however, crime stories are a dime a dozen, and as you know, when it rains it pours, and we have been flooded with similar submissions.

  For what it’s worth, being older and wiser, I include a brief critique of your story.

  It goes without saying that in this day and age correct spelling and grammar are necessary, and in this regard your document is letter perfect.

  Unfortunately you lack the capacity to think outside the box, and so your submission is simply the same old story, as dull as dishwater. Some of us who read your story were bored to tears. I know that sounds harsh, but I need to call a spade, a spade. It would not be of benefit for me to gild the lily.

  If you think there is a light at the end of the tunnel for this story, you are sadly mistaken, for there is not a hope in hell.

  It is certainly not the end of the world to have a manuscript rejected, and I urge you to leave no stone unturned in putting your best foot forward.

  It is important for you to know the ropes, so please keep a stiff upper lip, put your nose to the grindstone, your shoulder to the wheel, start from scratch, and you may yet find a good fit. You simply need to go back to the drawing board.

  Bear in mind that you are a new author, and still wet behind the ears. Writing is a tough row to hoe, but please don’t think that you are in over your head, or that you have bitten off more than you can chew. It really is not a wild goose chase.

  Go for broke, write till the cows come home, and you will have your fifteen minutes of fame.

  Sincerely,

  S. Joseph

  Publisher

  Up on the Roof

  THEY’RE NUTS, BOTH OF THEM. Well, not too bad yet, just one brick short of a load, one card short of a deck. One has Alzheimer, one has dementia, which is which I don’t remember, but what does it matter. They’re both a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

  But what the hell, they are my parents.

  My sister, Melanie, takes care of them, but when it comes to the manly stuff, that’s my job. Winter’s coming on, and I’m checking the big items, the things a man should do. And I’m the son, so it’s my job. But first I’ll take mom and dad out for breakfast.

  I listen to the oldies for the entire drive up. I’ve got them all on CD’s, and I really like The Drifters. Some of the songs I listen to twice, especially the one “Up On The Roof”. It’s an hour drive, and sometimes I stress about how I will find the parents are doing, but the oldies keep me mellow.

  It’s not too bad when I get there. They’re delighted to see me, and even more so when I say I’ll take them out to breakfast. Mom’s in her old green bathrobe, and she insists she can go to breakfast in that, because now she’s old, and doesn’t have to look good for anyone.

  “You can’t go to breakfast in your bathrobe” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Green isn’t your best colour.” I tell her.

  I look in her wardrobe, pull out a blue sweater and hold it up to her chin.

  “Look Ma. Look at how blue your eyes are with this sweater.”

  She chases me out of the room so she can change, and when she comes out I tell her again how the sweater brings out the blue in her eyes.

  Breakfast isn’t too bad, either. Dad insists on telling century-old jokes to the busy waitress, and mom changes her mind three times about what she wants to eat. First she wants pancakes, then bacon and eggs, then pancakes again, but only if they have “real” maple syrup. I tip the waitress double for her patience. I get them into the car with a minimum of bickering about who gets to ride shotgun. Dad insists he should be in the front because he’s “The Man”, and mom advises him that it’s not 1950 anymore and “The Man” doesn’t get to do everything he wants to do. Mo
m wins this battle because Dad moves away from the car, waving his arms around to make a point, and Mom simply opens the front door and gets in. Dad sighs, gives up, and gets into the back, and we’re away. We are almost home again when Dad asks me to check on the roof shingles. He found one in the back yard and saved it. I assure him I’ll check it out.

  When we get back Mom and Dad thank me for breakfast. I go in search of a ladder, find some roofing nails, and get up on the roof. I don’t like heights, and this is two storeys. The back section over the kitchen is a flat roof. I cross the roof in a crouch, and, of course, the missing shingle is up on the pitched roof part. I creep slowly and cautiously up the pitch and replace the shingle. I’m just hammering roofing nails into some of the other loose shingles, when I hear Dad.

  “Call the police, Marie,” he hollers. “There’s a burglar on the roof. He’s trying to get in the house.”

  “What?” Mom calls back. She’s going deaf, but will never admit it. For once I’m glad. It will buy me some time while Dad tries to make her understand, or finally gives up and goes to call 911 himself.

  I inch carefully over the down slope of the pitched roof to the front of the house, where I know a window will be open, and yell for my dad. He’s still roaring at Mom to call the police when he recognizes something, my voice maybe, and comes out on to the lawn.