Month: February 2014

Trifecta 112: A certain irony

This week’s Trifecta Challenge entices us to use the word FUNK. In 33-333 words, we are asked to use the third definition,SLUMP  <an economic funk>  <the team went into a funk> Without further ado, here is my story:

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Harry Lowe. Having inherited his hard working father’s company, Harry has spent most of his life living well, mostly off the backs of the people that worked for his company. Harry drove the best cars, ate the best food, and bedded some of the finest women in town. Harry bragged that it was ironic that he was so rich, but did so little.

This all came to an abrupt end when the stock market took a dive and his business went into a major funk.  Kar-E-Out, a major supplier of grocery bags since the late eighties took a major hit and eventually closed its doors. This left Harry broke, owing money to everyone in town.

Eventually all his fake friends and lovers were gone  and he found himself alone. This was when he took up drinking. Harry virtually drank himself homeless.

Bouncing from one shelter to another, Harry made his way by robbing those even less fortunate than he was. Harry felt it was his right to have more than the rest. He figured society at least owed him that.

One morning, while sifting through the pockets of a homeless man, he found a lottery ticket. He slipped it into his pocket before falling to his knees in pain. One of the workers at the shelter picked him up and brought him to the hospital where Harry met with the doctor.

“We have some bad news. We did a few tests, and found that you have severe liver disease. You have two, maybe three weeks to live. I am sorry.”

Distraught, Harry went into a fit of rage. “Why me? I was so rich, so lucky! Now look at me, dying and nobody gives a damn!”

With that, Harry reached into his pockets and found the stolen ticket. He scratched it and noticed three bars. SET FOR LIFE: $2000 per week for the rest of your life!

Before Harry could collect his first check, he was gone.  Talk about irony!


an overdue tribute

A bright young man

raised in a small  town

in Newfoundland

His future was bright

no end in sight

he left home for the big city

This was 1950

Hey there Matey

He joined the Navy

and quickly became a man

On the Canadian Warship Athabaskan 

Being green and too shy

he hung with the wrong group of guys

They used his naivety as a distraction

They barred him in the hold

for three days I was told

causing the young man pain and grief

he questioned his sanity and beliefs.

sitting alone in the dark

without even a spark

lots can happen to a man’s mind that way

Years of counselling at hospitals and the VA

on drug and shock therapy that was experimental

one day he left the hospital

He returned to the island, to start a new life

in a few years he met his wife

He got a job with the railway

and passed the days away

and for once, he enjoyed his life

but bouts of depression

and drugs set to stimulate

or even manipulate

the very thoughts that haunted his sleep.

Regular visits to the doctor

took away his honor

When nothing worked, he hit a wall

Tried twice to end  it all

or to get someone to listen to his Plea

and then finally, a doc from the other side of the world figured it out


and all of a sudden he got help

and with this new found peace

his life took a new lease

a chance to live happily

and he settled down and had a family

to his three daughters he gave the world

but would not utter a word

about his past in the Canadian Navy

or his being considered ‘crazy’.

Honey Bee Bread and the big fright

I woke up early this morning. Actually couldn’t sleep. Started thinking about how I am raising my son and how I must have given my mom so many grey hair while growing up.

I wouldn’t think of letting my son do the things I did as a kid; however, mom had no knowledge anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t the type of kid who was involved in anything bad, like smoking or drugs, but I was quite the daredevil in my day.

When I was a kid, my best friend  ever, Ricky and I spent all our time together. We build cabins, we fished, camped, rode our bikes, and built go-carts.

The go-cart incident still sticks out in my mind. Ricky was quite the carpenter in his day. He could build anything with just a few pieces of wood and old junk he found in his dad’s garage. I remember once, we scrapped his dad’s old snowmobile. The suspension featured  little wheels called ‘boogie-wheels’. Ricky tore the suspension apart and retrieved these wheels, which measured about five inches in height. With that, we cut a piece of plywood in two so that it measured 8 foot by three, and fastened the wheels to the board. Ricky fixed two pieces of rope to each side of the wheels and inserted a long bolt in the middle, and created a  steering system. Our own invention  for brakes was a hole in the floor in which we inserted the lug wrench from his dad’s truck (I still remember his dad cussing at us for taking it without asking him).

We brought our contraption  to the top  of the steepest hill in the community. The contractors had just laid a covering of new pavement, and the hill was as smooth as a baby’s ass. (Ricky’s description, not mine)

Like two Olympians on a luge, we lay on our backs, me manning the brake and Ricky steering, we took off like a light, only to have the steering rope break. We should have used new rope, but we were too poor to buy any, besides, Ricky’s dad had lots of used rope in the shed. Anyway, without steering, it was up to me to apply the brake. I shoved the lug wrench handle into the hole and it scraped on the pavement, but to no avail. Perhaps a trial run was in order, but hey, we were kids!

The little cart (or board with wheels attached) took off, the two of us screaming like banshees, and headed down the hill. Just when things couldn’t get any worst, we seen it. A Honey-Bee bread truck heading towards us. With the two of us on our backs, not six inches from the road, he couldn’t have seen us. He didn’t apply his brakes, but headed straight for us….and over us. That’s right, we went right under his truck.

Ricky used to stutter, but for a brief moment, and I will never forget it….he didn’t.  He let out a ‘WHOA” and said “HOLEEEY FUCK! WHAT A FUCKING RUSH! LET’S DO IT AGAIN!”

Of course, I didn’t. Scared me straight I guess!

Ricky was such a good carpenter for an eleven year old kid. He could have done something with his life if only he didn’t discover drugs and booze.