Dear James,

Howdy!

‘Who’s this?’ you’re wondering. ‘I wasn’t expecting any mail!’ you’re saying to yourself. Well, James, it’s me, Becky Stone!!! ‘Becky Stone?’ you’re thinking. ‘Well, I don’t know a Becky Stone.’ Of course you don’t, James. Of course you don’t.

Does “Monster Toes” ring a bell?

There we go. We haven’t talked in so long! God, it must be ten years now, excluding of course that graceful period known as adolescence when you called me an “ugly bitch” every day while prodding my feet with a metric ruler.

James. I am writing to let you know I forgive you. I forgive you for making my high school years a living hell, I forgive you for writing those hateful comments on my locker, and for spreading those vicious rumors about me in grade ten (he was my SECOND cousin TWICE REMOVED and that was a one-time thing...well fine he was my first-cousin but he's English and that stuff's legal in England) I even forgive you for “accidentally” shooting off my pinky toe with a BB gun. (I didn’t need that one anyway).

If you recall, when we were nine I made the foolish mistake of wearing sandals to school. I used to have what the doctor referred to as “webbed feet”, and although he assured me that this condition was ENTIRELY NORMAL, I have since undergone cosmetic surgery, after years and years of torment, to correct this small but debilitating flaw. Unfortunately, due to what the doctor’s lawyer calls a “misunderstanding”, the operation didn’t go as planned, and I should now have only four toes on each foot. Subtracting the one you shot off in grade nine, that leaves seven, total. But I do not hold any resentment against you or anyone else. I want you to know this. While you may continue to torment others based on physical appearance or toe size, I have learned to rise above such superficialities, gaining the confidence to secure a co-managerial position at Boston Pizza. I am very happy there, despite all your years of torment.

You may remember fondly that day in grade four when I serenaded you with my karaoke talents backed-up by the vocal styling of a one Whitney Houston. I dedicated this song to you, James. I told you I would always love you, and dammit ... I would have. You couldn’t see a good thing when it was standing right in front of you on a wooden desk singing into a pencil case. You may also remember telling everyone at recess that I “chased” you around the room trying to kiss you. As if, James, as if.

You may ask yourself why this letter is typed rather than printed. Well there is a very simple explanation for this. You see, due to a rather strenuous head injury a few years back, I am no longer capable of writing cursive for extended periods of time. I find the activity exhausting, and although I have yet to officially get to the root of the problem, I am 97% certain it all stems back to that fateful day when we were 16 and you decided it would make for an afternoon of hilarity if you chucked a rock at my head. It was only a small concussion and I knew the spinning would stop soon, but let me tell you, there is nothing like lying in a pool of your own blood while teenage boys point and laugh. Memories.

I am offering you an olive branch here. Should you choose to accept it, you may meet me at the back parking lot of Boston Pizza this Thursday at 8. You should probably let me know before hand so I’m not waiting (although that was quite funny that time you asked me to the dance and then let me wait for three hours in the cemetery. I was sketpical about the peculiar meeting spot, but I thought you were into that sort of thing. Not that I am. But let's just say after you stood me up I was forced to 'dig up a date'.)

Sincerely,

Rebecca Judith Stone

P.S. Kindly send your response to purpleangel@gmail.com

Dopplegangrene Archives

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Slainte,
JK Murphy and the editors of FTTW

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Dear Marc (Mark?),

I just wanted to apologize for getting you fired (and arrested?) 13 years ago. That was 100 percent uncalled for. Think of this as a good, hearty "whoops, I fucked up!!!" First things first, are you French? I always envisioned your name spelt with a 'C', I'm not sure why. I think you may have had that look about you, but now when I try to remember your face I only see one of two things:

1) PJ Dan from YTV, (mysteriously enough, unless you secretly are PJ Dan and have been under the Witness Protection Program for the last decade for fear of me seeking further vengeance against you. Ha ha aah ah ahh a ah ah aa hhhaaaa!! Quit being so paranoid, Marc(k)!!!!!!!!!)

2) My 8-year-old self, laughing maniacally under the harsh light of morning, gazing through blackened twigs at you being forced away in handcuffs, sitting on the ground while you were carted off to jail. It is a very disturbing image. I think that is why it has stayed with me for a very, very long time.

Marc(k). I want to begin my apology by first stating that things did not have to be this way. I'm not sure if you are still serving your sentence, but if you are, know now and for evermore that it is technically your fault. Look around you. Look at your dark, dingy cell, the crusty bars. Look at your bunkmate, Franklin. Look at Franklin's tattoo, and the thick layer of filth garnishing his skin. Feel Franklin's strong, firm hands grasping your neck as he goes in for the kill. I can only imagine the nightly ritual you endure.

Certainly you couldn't have known whom you were dealing with when you signed up to be the junior instructor at the St. Andrew's Tennis Club. You thought you would be teaching a bunch of elementary school girls. I guess you didn't know that the devil herself would be arriving with pigtails and bubblegum on a bike named "Purple Angel". I guess you just didn't see that coming. Maybe you should have thought twice before picking that BITCH Delilah Fairybush* every single damn time you needed a volunteer. Every single damn time. Delilah* was fine I guess, if you go for that sort of thing (I don't). With her matching socks and shoes, she had her naïve act down pat, but it was exactly that: an act. Everybody knew she was the biggest slut in the third grade and if she says anything different she's a lying sack of shit. She was then and she probably still is. In fact, I wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised if she's working the corner of King and Crown at this very moment. Even the blades of grass surrounding the tennis court could see the game she was playing (a dangerous game indeed). Every day the same goddamn thing. I think I spoke for the entire gang when I took her aside one day and very simply stated that her vomit-inducing flirting was not going unnoticed, and that we, frankly, had had quite enough of her blatant sexual advances. We were there to learn, and learn we did. Learn we did.

Unfortunately this learning came in giant waves of astonishing revelation. Rather than learn about the game of tennis, for example, I learned about the great blemish that is human nature. I learned that Delilah*, while seemingly coy and seemingly angelic, lacked something I and the rest of the world commonly refer to as "talent". Not only did she have little to no tennis ability, she also had what appeared to be nothing but pink cotton under that brown stringy head of hers. I wouldn't go so far as to call her stupid, as Lord knows she had to possess some level of intelligence in order to be such an unbelievably manipulative whore. By late July she had the whole class sucking on that sweet lollilop of a sob story she told. You'd think she was the only 8-year-old in the world to have her adrenal glands removed. Give me a break. Newsflash, Delilah*: Having no adrenal cortex does not automatically make you a tennis superstar.

Marc(k), Marc(k), Marc(k). Despite these damning signs of Delilah*'s major personality deficiencies, you still insisted on playing favorites. The girl was clearly and mistakenly in love with you., even though I realize you had no feelings for her (while your taste in women was questionable, I can't for a minute believe you'd stoop that low). It was obvious to me and everyone else in the class that we (you and I, Marc(k), you and I… not Delilah*, but me. Me.) had something unspoken, a romantic tension that bordered on cosmic. You chose to deny this and repeatedly ignore me. Maybe you were scared. Maybe you were worried about what the huddled masses might think. Maybe you actually were retarded like everyone said. I don't know. I'm not here to ask these questions.

I started my protest against favoritism outside our lesson in early August of 1993, if you remember correctly (you probably don't.) I would circle the courts in Purple Angel, politely but forcefully demanding justice. You ignored, while the others just stared, their sloppy mouths hanging ajar like a bunch of lazy cows. Sheep. I was thinking cows but now I'm thinking sheep. Big hairy sheep, too dumb to do anything but follow. Big lazy hairy sheep. I was a pioneer. Your ignorance only fueled my rage. I suppose you thought you were being clever. I wonder how clever you feel now.

FYI, when I told Mrs. MacDonald about your close relationship with Delilah*, I really didn't know what I was insinuating. In retrospect, I suppose borrowing lines from my favourite episodes of Degrassi High might not have been such a wise idea, as at the time, what with being 8, I didn't exactly know the "weight" or "meaning" of some of the words I was using. Sorry about that. And the fire I set (yes, that was me) to the back woods wouldn't have been blamed on you if you hadn't said those horrible, vile things to me earlier that day. I don't know about you Marc(k), but for me, "disrespectful" and "inappropriate" are labels that don't just wash away with soap and water. That fire was an accident, I swear. Did it look good? No, it did not. But them's the breaks, Marc(k). Them's the breaks.

I didn't get off scot-free either, I'll have you know. After I informed the two new instructors that they "best watch themselves or they'll end up like the last guy", my mother had a bit of a "sit-down" with me. As if I needed this lecturing. As far as I was concerned, after the cord was cut and the teat ran dry, I had no need for this woman. Her words were empty. As if she understood true love. The humiliation only grew when I insisted it wasn't me but my evil twin who had said these words. Evil twin? Oh, come the f*@$ on, Becky! I was 8 and even I knew that was weak. Still, it was all I had. The woman had me up against the wall and she knew it. I had to go apologize to Joe and Mac, or whatever the hell their names were, which I did with clenched teeth, all the while realizing I had ten times the intelligence of these imbeciles put together.

Ok, in closing, I am really, really sorry for any psychological warfare I may have caused you over the past decade (give or take). Innocent games, really. Why don't we call a draw in this great tennis match of life and say it's water under the bridge? I for one am going to do just that. I can't tell you how great it is to finally get this off my chest. Thank you for that.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Judith Stone

P.S. If you ever wanted to go out for a drink or whatever, give me shout at purpleangel@gmail.com.

JK Murphy has changed the names to protect the "innocent"

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My bosses had sex with each other last night. Donna* came in around 8:30 this morning looking refreshed, satisfied and rosy. Max* arrived 15 minutes later.

"Fifteen minutes is the perfect amount of time to squander any suspicion," he whispers under the protective cocoon of darkness in the wee hours of dawn. Fatigued after a long night's session of lovemaking under the light of Orion, Camelopardalis and Coma Berenices, the two lovers prepare to feast on ham and mutton on the back veranda, the juices of the animal carcass dripping onto their perspiring bodies. The meat is tempting, but not nearly as enticing as the prospect of the union of their bodies into one heaving mound of flesh. The ham will have to wait . . . yet again.

The buffet is not yet christened when the inevitable amalgamation of sexual energies occurs, but both parties know the meal will not go to waste and can be sold to customers later the next day. Nobody will have to know it was contaminated by fluids foreign to its own tissue. It is a caterer's prerogative to mix business with pleasure. When the two reunite at the deli,
their unsuspecting staff sense a shift in the environment. They can see it, taste it, smell it. The bizarre yet alluring combination of hot steaming sex and olive oil. A heady cocktail: the nectar of their merger as business partners joining forces with that of their merger as lovers.

Max strolls in sporting nightwear, painfully and regrettably referring to his attire as ‘his PJs’. Donna is both amused and surprised, balanced with just a hint of indifference: an emotional mishmash she had rehearsed in Max’s bathroom mirror hours earlier while cloaked in his green golf t-shirt and matching tartan boxers. Pajamas? Suspicious.

"Hi Donna," he says.

"Hello, Max, did you have a good night?" she replies with a sly smile, a smile that reads: 'I know exactly how your night went, but let's do have inside jokes about it, 'twould be such fun.'
"Oh, good," he says, with an expression of tired elation, and they both chuckle, the memories dodging back and forth between them.

Their eerie dynamic continues throughout the day. Any argument usually ends abruptly in a fit of giggles reminiscent of schoolgirls sharing secrets at a slumber party. At around 10 am, Donna begins to stir the ground beef, (which had undoubtedly been wedged between their two pulsating bodies at some point in time the night before.) Falsely believing they are alone in their own little crevice of the kitchen, Mark leans over and asks:
"How is the beef coming along?"
"It's almost perfect," Donna replies.
"You’re perfect..." he says.

These words won’t wash away with soap and water. I’ve tried. I’ve even tried using a male loofa. Not the frilly kind, but the rough sandpaper kind that tears into your third layer of skin. Nothing works.

The night before, after closing a half-hour early, Mark had uncharacteristically rushed his staff home. So the evening could begin. An evening of fine dining and sexual intrigue…My co-workers say I’m paranoid, but I just can’t look at anyone the same after finding a copy of Vox in my grandmother’s attic. It was conveniently placed beside a Sobeys bag filled with human feces, which I’m hoping belonged to my 3-year-old cousin and not my 79-year-old grandmother.

August 27th, 2004.

This afternoon Donna asked me to work with her next summer. I asked if Max would have me back (being obviously self-deprecating, of course he would have me back.) She beckoned for me to lean in:

"He may wear the pants, but I tell him when to take them off."

I may quit tomorrow.

JK Murphy has changed the names to protect the innocent (yeah, right)

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Dear Lord,

Today, the world changed. But what am I saying, you already knew that.

I get up at my usual hour (4:00 am) to a gift from the early dawn: a blanket of freshly fallen snow, courtesy of Yours truly.

Thank you.

I walk into the creamy powdered landscape that surrounds my home. I climb into the 2006 Lexus that Daddy (my other Daddy, that is!!!!!) bought me for my half-birthday this year. Your present must be in the mail...

After waiting for the car to heat up I pull out of the driveway. Brrr. Is it just me or does Winter get colder every single year? It seems the earth becomes nippier and frostier with each passing day! Is there anything you could do about this? Parking my SUV in the garage is a no-go because I'm forced to share it with that next-door heathen Stephen (those words don't rhyme for just no reason!)

I know you created everyone in your own image, but surely your mirror must have been grotesquely distorted the day you brought him into this world, if you don't mind me saying. His fourteen-year-old daughter has a tattoo of a dragon on her neck! Of all things! And that's just what I can see, the rest of her bodily mutation is covered by the jet black drapes of fabric that mimic clothing. I ask you to keep a special eye on her as you would the poor pagan babies in uncivilized countries. It is not her fault she was born into
- uh hurm - "atheism".

Now, onwards and upwards! On my daily visit to the homeless shelter, I flip through the radio stations (Harper dismisses election...blah blah blah...India-Pakistan train-bombing...yadda yadda yadda...corn cobs may unlock key to natural gas cars...gobbley goop) when I hear such dreadful, terrible, earth-shattering news.

I'm sure you know exactly what I am referring to, but in case you hadn't noticed a very influential and troubled young pop star has shaved her head. Now, I'm sure you are already working your magic, but let me just say that I am devastated by this turn of events. Please watch over her. Since this first occurred it has been on the evening news, in print and on television, on the internet and radio...I think it's suffice to say that this
cacophonous melody is playing on repeat in the soundtrack of my life, these events have painted themselves in indelible ink on the backdrop of my mind.

We cannot have every Tom, Dick or Slutty walking around looking like a skinhead prisoner, or a punk-rock marijuana-smoking psychiatric patient. Especially when that Slutty is such an integral thread in the fabric of our culture. I think you understand where I'm coming from. She is a mother of two, and this is my concern. Where are her kids when she is out shaving all parts of her body? Locked up in some death chamber with mini-razors, no doubt, saying "Well, Mommy did it, why can't I?". It's this kind of degenerative behaviour that leads to tattoos, motorcycles, and ultimately, syphillis.

The hair is going for a starting bid of 1 million dollars on the internet. Well, at least some good can come of this. I plan to purchase that hair with the money I had set aside for my operation and donate that hair to charity. I reckon this would make some lucky child a rather beautiful wig, disregarding the scent of vodka, tears and vomit. I can see the child bringing that wig to classroom show and tell. Hopefully she'll have a more faithful and appreciative audience than I at the age of 13.

"This is my best friend, God," I said, spreading my arms open wide, spinning in super-slow-motion. "And he made...........everything." I pause here, forcing the earth into a warm hug. The laughter starts from the far end of the classroom, and grows louder and louder as it reaches the front of the room.

With Love,
Your Faithful Daughter.

Jennifer's YouTube page

Archives

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Another new author? Yes, it's another new author. Meet Jennifer, video diarist and the newest member of the FTTW clan.

Jennifer tells us a bit about her column:

"Verbal Diary-ah": Egos and alteregos express the goings-on in their complicated, tortured lives through open letters and diaries. These individuals appear to suffer from several psychological disorders. Rebecca Judith Stone takes hold of my pen quite regularly as she is particularly afflicted and oppressed in her everyday life. Writing letters allows her to 'settle the score' by blaming those who are responsible, accusing those who aren't, all the while ambiguously admitting to having committed rather
hideous crimes against humanity and society. Children, tennis instructors, and cats are regularly injured. Inspiration comes from the sound of waves lapping against rocks and sand; the crunch of leaves underfoot in the tender thrust of fall; tiny footsteps up a carpeted step, the creak of a door, the rustling of bedsheets, the calm, calculated placing of hands around a slumbering neck, and then the near silent gasp of an ex-lover as he takes his final, stifled breath of air.

Jennifer at Youtube

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