I've got no excuse, I'm afraid, other than the holidays and all that. I've finished my shopping and whittled my card list down to two essentials*. All I have to make is my dad's gift and then start cooking**.

I think I'm back into the swing of things with short fiction. Tonight I wrote a short tale for the first time in months, and it's something I've wanted to write out for at least two years. I revisited my two favourite short stories and "accidentally" bought a very good collection of shorts at abebooks.com***.

The story is from an idea I had in writing class about a young woman at the wake of someone she's been on three dates with. He swallows her father's watch to try to look tough, and his last act before he dies is to spread rumors that they were engaged and she's pregnant. But she's above the waist and she just really wants her watch back. It's called "New Year's Day" and no matter how hard I write I can't make it any more like James Reaney's "The Box Social."


Notes:
*two essentials: That's Dr. Ho, the acupuncturist who perhaps changed my life, and the woman from the Ontario College of Pharmacists who turned my bad experience with that jackass pharmacist into a good one.

**dad's gift and then start cooking: On the menu: tons and tons of Gramma's shortbread (everyone's request) and sweet potato latkes. I'll probably make some greens or something. And my dad is the greatest because his idea of a great gift is a pomegranate, a coconut, instant creme carmel or homemade rice pudding.

***two favourite short stories and "accidentally" bought a very good collection of shorts: If anyone actually takes some whiny blogger's book reccommendations, The Collector of Hearts by Joyce Carol Oates will cure your reader's block. Fabulous grotesquerie. And those two favourite stories are "The Box Social" by James Reaney and "The Laugher" by Heinrich Boll. While I linked to abebooks.com, please let me reccommend it over Crapters/Fandango. There's no shame in used books, or in finding them efficiently.