Sim Carter: Past Tense Imperfect

First Dance image by Jacqueline Osborn Last Dance I wrote this short story after my dad died in 1992. It was published in SKYLARK, Purdue University's literary journal; I was so thrilled I framed the acceptance letter. I still have that letter hanging around someplace. Not literally hanging anymore, I packed it away in storage during one of our moves. Like my memories, it's in there somewhere. I wish I could give you this stuff in order, begin at the beginning. If I could do that, I'd write a book. Instead I have to grab at what glimpses I can. It's as though all the places and people stuffed inside my head are like yards and yards of once beautiful fabrics, ripped from their bolts and shoved into one large bin. Velvets, jewel-toned satins, richly-textured tapestries, billowy silks. Cotton, denim, gingham and chintz. They're all jammed in there together, some faded now, some in tatters, a loose thread here, a trace of a connection there. A smell, a smi...

Thank you  to everyone who reached out to me with suggestions on how to identify the man sitting next to my dad in the photo I shared last week. I've attempted to contact the Libyan embassy—who I have a hunch have bigger fish to fry—but we'll see. I contacted them on their twitter account which seems odd, I know, but the only way to email them is via a form which doesn't enable one to attach photos. If the twitter request doesn't get a response, I'll try snail mail. Still thinking of my dad, I thought some of you might be interested in a 'thinly veiled' short story based on our father-daughter relationship that appeared in Purdue University's Literary Magazine SKYLARK back in 1992.  With apologies to Joy for this thinly veiled attempt to piggyback onto British Isles Friday, the only connection being my British blood.  Last Dance Shannon squeezed some Lubriderm into her palm and took her father’s foot with its familiar high and bony arch...

Kisses as Deep as the Ocean  Liz had arrived in January along with her parents, her brother, and younger sister. They were all as white as the Canadian winter they'd left. The trees in Niagara Falls had been bathed in ice, everything was white, even the sky, as if blue had flown south for the winter. They flew south too, into the blue. When the stewardess flung open the cabin door they'd been the first down the stairway onto the airport's tarmac. The sudden shock of steamy air fogged her glasses. “It's like a hot house.” She'd taken her glasses off, letting the perfume and warmth wash over her face. Beyond the airports chain link fence, palm trees beckoned from their turquoise background. She wanted to drown herself in a sea of blue. “It smells funny” Nancy complained. Her father explained. "You're in the tropics. It's the humidity. Wait till you see El Yunque. The air is so heavy it rains all the time." EI Yunque, he told them, was...

Pros and Cons "Hey" She looked up from the margarita she was stirring with a straw. It just didn’t make sense. Drinking a margie through a straw meant you would miss the salt. “Hey” She squinted into the mirror; he was sitting solo in the booth behind her. Shit! She’d planned on calling it a night. ‘ So,’ she thought, swiveling around on her barstool , ‘Are you a 33 or a 333 word man?’ “Oh, hello there” Smiling. A touch surprised. “Buy you a drink?” A 333 word man for sure. Was he slurring? She couldn’t tell. She swirled her glass, watching the ice clink. “Thanks, I’m good” He was hesitating. “But thanks, anyway.” That was it. Enough. He was sliding across the vinyl, standing, crossing the carpeted floor. Green, with blue and black swirls. God, that had to hide a lot of spills. Like the scotch he spilled on his weave over. “Oops” He shook the scotch off his hand. “Oops” She handed him a couple of cocktail napkins. He dabbed...