From Every Corner

Copyright © 2013 The Princess Street Writers Collective.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9207-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9208-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9209-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013909046

iUniverse rev. date: 10/11/2013

Table of Contents

The 12:45 to Lackeney Bay / H.L. Edwards

The M-Manifesto / Ursula Fuchs

Paranormal Encounters / Leesia Lindsay

God’s Guidance / Evelyn Lundeen

The Box / Liz Olson

Help! / Gim Ong

Austin’s First / Merla Reid

Crossroads / Tiffany Russell

Disgraceful Behaviour / H.L. Edwards

The Yellowhead Highway / Ursula Fuchs

Honest, Officer / Leesia Lindsay

The Leave-Taking / Evelyn Lundeen

CVA / Liz Olson

The House that Jack Built / Gim Ong

Boogey Phobia / Merla Reid

Fairy of Broken Resolutions / Tiffany Russell

Mysterious Ways / H.L. Edwards

The Hunt / Leesia Lindsay

Manuel and Maria / Evelyn Lundeen

Entity / Liz Olson

No Angels in the Snow / Gim Ong

Finnegan the Fish / Merla Reid

Happiness / Tiffany Russell

Playing Hooky / H.L. Edwards

Midnight Mistakes / Leesia Lindsay

Poem for a Lover / Evelyn Lundeen

Loss / Liz Olson

Parting / Gim Ong

Just One Life: The Titanic / Merla Reid

Pure Bloodlines / H.L. Edwards

Open Eyes / Leesia Lindsay

The Visit / Evelyn Lundeen

A Mother Knows / Liz Olson

A Partner I Can Trust / Gim Ong

No Regrets / Merla Reid

The Sex Object / H.L. Edwards

Stolen / Leesia Lindsay

Filth / Evelyn Lundeen

A Tale of One Kitty / Liz Olson

Tagged / Gim Ong

Priorities / Merla Reid

The Situation / H.L. Edwards

They Climb / Liz Olson

Winter Rendezvous / Gim Ong

My Shabandowan Summer / Merla Reid

The Violet Lady / H.L. Edwards

That Very Child / Merla Reid

Whose Garden This? / Merla Reid

The Princess Street Writers Collective

would like to express their most sincere thanks to

Evelyn Lundeen, Liz Olson and Ursula Fuchs,

without whose editorial skills this book would not have been possible.

The 12:45 to Lackeney Bay / H.L. Edwards

Mabel Pettington awakened from her half-doze; it was the closest to sleep that she ever got these days. She groped for her glasses on the bedside table, knocking them to the floor. Her sigh was audible as she struggled to reach them, her lower back and hips screaming in protest and her arthritic elbow throbbing.

Shuffling to the bathroom, she realized she was unconsciously looking for any mess that old Tabitha might have left on the floor. A sharp pain stabbed through her; poor cat, they’d been together for nineteen years. She’d had to have her put down the day before yesterday.

A tear slid down her wrinkled face and she swallowed a huge lump in her throat. "Silly old fool," she chided herself as she began her morning deliberations.

After a cup of strong tea and a slice of toast, she washed up the few dishes and put them away. The house was clean and tidy. All her laundry was done. A tingle of excitement shot through her; today was the day.

Mabel bathed, then, clad in her undergarments, she powdered herself with talc and sprayed the last of the Chanel No. 5 left in the bottle. She studied her face in the dresser mirror as she applied light face powder, blush and lipstick. "You definitely look your age, old girl," she thought.

Not that it mattered really; in just a few hours, she would be on her way home. It was a trip that she had been delaying until her beloved Tabitha passed on. Her loved ones would welcome her however she looked.

"Home is where they have to take you in," her old English Gran had said so many times.

Pulling the suitcase from under the bed, Mabel checked through its contents with care, making sure everything was arranged in neat efficient order. She went to the closet, standing for a few moments before selecting a maroon suit that she wore for only the most special of occasions and an off-white blouse with a flattering ruffle to hide the wrinkles in her thin neck. She finished dressing, put on her good black shoes and carried the suitcase out of the bedroom to place beside the front door.

Going to the kitchen, on impulse she poured some port wine, her rare and only alcoholic indulgence, into a tiny crystal glass that was the last of a treasured set from her favourite aunt. She looked out the window to the backyard where once there had been a thriving vegetable garden, strong fruit-bearing trees and her favourite rose bush.

The garden was overgrown, having gotten to be too much for her years ago. The fruit trees had suffered blight and had been gone for two summers now. Only the little rose bush remained, but this year the blooms had been sparse and now it, too, appeared to be withering.

To everything, there is a season, she reflected as she refilled her tiny glass.

She punched in the number for Callaway’s Cabs to book her ride to the bus station. At the station, the young man at the depot counter looked bored with his life and his job. He gave Mabel a perfunctory glance as she stood in front of him. She waited patiently as he paused in his discussion with a co-worker about something called Eminem.

A one-way ticket to Druskony, please. Her words were concise.

There’s no such place on the computer, said the boy, his Justin Bieber hair flipping across his forehead as he turned back toward the other worker.

Excuse me. Mabel’s tone was more forceful. It’s twelve miles northeast of Lackeney Bay. Can you find Lackeney Bay on your computer?

The youth rolled his eyes up into his head but clicked at his keyboard. Yeah, Lackeney Bay is on here but it’s the end of the line…bus doesn’t go any further. The boy started to turn away again.

Then give me a one-way ticket to Lackeney Bay, please, on the next bus. I’ve waited a long time to go home. She beamed at the clerk as he sullenly produced the requested ticket, Today is a wonderful day for me… but he had re-started his interrupted conversation.

Mabel remained patient as she sat on the plastic seat designed for buttocks more padded than hers and waited for the clock to reach 12:25 p.m. The terminal was getting crowded and small children ran about, screeching and whining. Bums requested money.

Excuse me, she tried to get the attention of another employee. Excuse me, would I be able to check my bag somewhere safe?

The girl pointed to a row of battered lockers. Mabel gave her a sunny but ignored thank-you. She placed her suitcase and purse inside locker 38 and carefully tucked the key inside the pocket of her suit. She checked the clock again and walked out into the bright sunshine in front of the bus depot. She made her way across the parking lot and waited beside the street, anxious to see the Grey Goose coach as soon as it arrived.

The driver signaled, shoulder checked and hit the gas as he maneuvered into the station’s lot. Over the engine’s high whine, he heard a thunk as he crossed the street’s centre lane. A pair of bifocal glasses flew past his window and one black dress shoe shot across to the curb. He hit the brakes and fought his rising nausea.

Mabel was dead before the bus wheels had stopped turning. The people on the street personified the phrase ‘horrified onlookers’ as the driver stumbled off his bus and began to heave onto the pavement. He was thankful that it contained no passengers to share his trauma.

She was just in front of me all of a sudden. I swear, she wasn’t there and then… The driver was trembling as the paramedics and police secured the scene and led him away.

The officer checking for ID found the locker key and a folded slip of pink paper in the dead woman’s pocket. She unfolded it and stood for a long moment before approaching the pasty white and shaking bus driver. She had this in her pocket. It was with a locker key. I guess it’s meant for you. Her voice was grave.

The driver took the note and read the words that Mabel had written in her clear legible hand,

Dear Bus Driver,

Please forgive me for involving you in this way but you can rest easy knowing you have made me happier than I have been in a very long time. It has been many, many years since I have seen any of my loved ones and I have been so very lonely. I always loved travelling by bus to see my family. I thank you so much for taking me home for the last time.

Yours sincerely,

Mabel Pettington

The M-Manifesto / Ursula Fuchs

2300 hours, 18.6.10

We have the subject in custody. A satisfied hum tells me the troops are in a celebratory mood…non, that is an understatement. Ecstatic is the word.

Charles Aznavour is playing in the background and the scent of an exceptionally fine Cuban cigar drifts across the humid night. Love is in the air. They deserve it. All of our fiercely discussed planning came to fruition tonight. For the cause. Eh bien, we struck like rattlers. Such primitives.

0800 hours, 19.6.10

The headlines in the Free Press exceed our expectations. The desired effect was to inculcate fear and increase it exponentially. Reeling disbelief is spreading most efficiently, like wildfire even. Mayor Thorfridson’s words professed calm during the press conference as she outlined our demands, but a rapid eye twitch which was magnified a thousand times on our large screen belied her terror. Now let them dismiss us as insignificant!

The subject continues to sleep peacefully. The sedative may perhaps have been administered in too great a dose. Edith Piaf is singing La Vie en Rose—I turn down the volume so as not to wake him.

1600 hours, 19.06.10

The subject is awake but disoriented. We have doused him with disinfectant to ensure no microbes contaminate our environment. I hope the irony will not be lost on him. He does not notice our special-ops team, or pretends not to.

Very clever, monsieur. But not as clever as we have been. All your efforts to extinguish us have only, as the philosopher Nietzsche once said, made us stronger.

I gaze implacably at the subject from a short distance (what an inconvenience it is to be so short-sighted) to assess his curious characteristics—a shame really for one so young and handsome to be in this predicament.

Mireille Mathieu is warbling a lovely little ballad as he sips, enfin, the espresso we provided him. The voice generator is to be readied so we can begin our negotiations once the subject is fully alert.

2230 hours, 19.06.10

We are all exulting. Peter Mansbridge has announced the abduction on the national news. CNN is running non-stop commentary. I include a transcription of the broadcast: "Winnipeg’s head entomologist was apprehended today in a brazen daylight attack by a previously unknown group…they are demanding that their manifesto, that which they call the M-Manifesto, be printed in full, along with an immediate cease and desist to stop anti-mosquito fogging operations in Winnipeg." I would rub my hands together in proverbial glee if I had hands.

They interviewed a passerby, and to our great delight, this is what he said: Look, we’ve got a situation here. Basically they’re holdin’ a knife to our throats. We got Genghis Khan and BILLIONS of invaders on the city outskirts. It’s gonna be ugly, man. Me and my family, we got the mini-van loaded to the hilt and we’re headin’ for the mountains.

Mais non, what an outrageous exaggeration! Comparing me to Genghis Khan. Such a brute! More like General de Tassigny. One of my ancestors was, after all, his constant companion in the French Foreign Legion.

The subject has been more valuable in our negotiations than we even realized. We may have to keep him a little longer.

0530 hours, 20.06.10

GMB: Bien sur, Monsieur. It is true you are not dreaming. You think your education equips you for such a time as this? (It took quite a bit of persuasion, but the voice generator convinced him in the end.) You think, Mr. Chief Entomologist, that Dursban and Malathion have no long-lasting effect?

You see before you what you have created: A paramilitary unit of which General de Tassigny would be proud! Was our surprise raid in Komarno not worthy of ‘ollywood?

We took great care, you notice, that the giant mosquito at the town entrance did not impale you as he lifted you out of your Jeep. And not a blemish after being carried on a hundred million wings to our hideout.

Is not our