A Tire Swing Story is a bite-sized "imagining" inspired by an object I discover while wandering. It could be a curbside trash gem or a message sprayed on a wall. A lost mitten, or an antique store find. Anything goes. I photograph the object and post them together, the story and its inspiration. There will be a new story every Monday and Wednesday. On Fridays, I'll discuss writing, life, love, and coffee. (In no particular order and maybe all at once.)

Monday, December 17, 2012

A moment ago as I sat in my chair,
came a sight I never have seen.
I looked at my toast and what I beheld, 
was the smallest, most perfect sardine.

Her body was shapely and shiny with oil 
and her eyes they invited me in.
Stretched out on the bread, my petit ingenue 
with her brain the size of a pin. 

I set down my paper, adjusted my vest, 
cleared my throat, and gave her a wink.
Said: "hello little darling. How do you do? 
I'm quite smitten with you, I think." 

They say that true love is priceless. 
They say it will better your life.
So I dropped to one knee, right there and then, 
and took this fish for my wife. 

It would've been quite the wedding,
she in her miniature gown.
But tragedy struck, when imagine my luck,
I gobbled my sweetheart right down. 

Friday, December 14, 2012

Casual Fridays: Walking tall against the rain.

Hi guys, it's Britt. 
When I'm feeling heavy, there are two things that get me through. Hot sauce and sisters. There isn't really a day that goes by that I'm not grateful for the existence of both. In my experience, they are best combined. A good bean and cheese burrito, and some major laughs.

What about you? What lifts that rock off your heart? 

Have a habenero kinda weekend, story-makers. See you back here on Monday. 
xo Britt
p.s.  this link is especially for you, Aly and Rach. Turn it up loud. I love you.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Dear Santa:
Last year I hid in the fur under Doogie's left ear and watched the family open presents on Christmas morning. Even Doogie joined in, barking and tearing at the wrapping paper. They were all so happy. I've never wanted something as much as I wanted to be a part of that.

Santa, I know you don't exactly bring presents to fleas. But I'm hoping you'll make an exception. I've been such a good parasite this year. I only ever suck Doogie's blood on Fridays now, and I do my best not to make him itch. So here is my Christmas Wish List: 

1. The Hunger Games box set

2. a girlfriend

3. a new pillow (preferably down-filled)

4. walkie-talkies

5. Anti-Hero "Classic Eagle" skateboard 

6. fresh bald patch with a nice view (sorry, Doogie.

7. a friend to play walkie talkies with. 

8. to possibly grow bigger, or be able to jump further this year.

9. pair of Numark TT500 dj turntables.

10. a cat

Thank you, Santa. 

Love: Roy 

Friday, December 7, 2012

Casual Fridays: Good News!!

My nephew Charlie doesn't have anything to do with this. I'm just in love with him.
Hi guys, it's Britt. 
Check it out! Good News Toronto. Whoot.
xo Britt

Monday, December 3, 2012

My name is 20. There are 19 others just like me. People who aren't really people. I can't tell you what I'm made of. That's classified information. 

Alright. My data processor tells me it's safe to share the truth with you. I'm constructed of poylmer, and highly advanced synthetic jelly silicon. 

I look just like a man. See these Doritos here? I don't need them. I don't need to eat at all. But I do eat. I eat a lot just to keep up my disguise. And I don't need clothes. CR4000s don't feel heat, or cold. My sweatpants and t-shirt are just to fit in with humans. I don't sleep either. I watch a lot of Family Guy at night, for research. 

What's that? You want me to get off your bus? 

You're making a big mistake, man. I've got incredible strength. This fist here isn't really a fist, it's a deadly weapon. I could rip out your heart in one second. And I'd laugh. I'd laugh while holding onto your still-beating, dripping heart. But I won't do that because with great power, comes great responsibility. That's what I always say.

But really. Imagine a cyborg ninja, and then imagine a tyrannosaurus rex and you'll start to get the idea.

You're calling Transit Authority now? Oh. I see. I'm no longer safe. If The Organization finds me, I will be taken back to the lab and destroyed.

Fine. I'm getting off here. But not because you're trying to intimidate me. I'm choosing to exit this bus, because I need to find a safe place to wait until the world is ready for me.

Don't tell me to get home safe. And don't call me Jim.

My name isn't Jim. It's 20. 

Friday, November 30, 2012

Casual Fridays: Phone Home

Hi guys. It's Britt. I would like to expand this suggestion beyond mothers in the biological sense. 

Why don't you call anyone who has nurtured and encouraged you, mopped up your tears or kissed your skinned knees? They can be male or female, family members or friends. Just someone who's loved you, and all your imperfections.

Phone home today, story makers. See you back here on Monday.
xo Britt 

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Story based on a newspaper clipping given to me by a friend. Thanks, David!
Wing makes a cup of tea. It is early morning, but even now, cars speed by the house, people on their way to jobs in the city. Their headlights flash briefly in the dark kitchen.

Wing raises the cup to his lips and blows on the tea to cool it. Then, shuffling in his slippers and bent over with arthritis, he begins his daily ritual: a tour of his house. He knows every corner, every drawer and shelf and floorboard by heart. Wing has lived here for fifty seven years.

Six months ago, they tried to take it from him. Developers came with clipboards and winning smiles. They passed him envelopes with cheques inside. "Relocation Compensation," they called it. The price they were willing to pay to tear down Wing's house to build Highway 89. But he refused all of them. Eventually, they constructed the highway around him. Now cars pass Wing's house unceasingly, like waves in a vast ocean.

In that corner of the bedroom, his son, Bai took his first breath. Years later, under that window over there, his wife, Lien died in her chair. Wing can still smell the incense and hear the mourning songs.  

 The tea cup clatters in the saucer as Wing moves from room to room, remembering. 

In the front parlour, he discovers his brother, Chen sitting in the rocking chair. 

"You're here," Wing whispers.

Chen smiles. "Hello, old man," he says. 

Wing carefully sets his tea down on the side table. 

"Is it time to go?" he asks Chen, feeling tears well in his eyes, "I've been alone so long." 

"Yes,"  Chen says.

"Should I be frightened?" 

"Not at all."
 

At the front door, Wing uses a knife to sever the first rope. When it snaps, the whole house groans. He saws through the second and third rope. Beads of sweat form on Wing's forehead and upper lip. He feels dizzy, and his thin arms ache. But he keeps on working. When the last rope has been cut, the house shudders and begins to move. 

Wing lowers himself onto the couch, beside his brother. Through the window, he can still see the long lines of cars moving past. But now they are moving too. Slowly, carried on the sea, the house drifts to the horizon. 

Friday, November 23, 2012

Casual Fridays: Happy Birthday, Charlie Bucket!!

Hi guys, it's Britt.
This weekend, my family is celebrating my nephew's very first birthday. Whaaaa! Happy Birthday, Charlie! And now, in honor of our dear Charlie Bucket's birthday, here's a story excerpt: 

"Very softly, Grandpa Joe said, "You're pulling our legs, Charlie, aren't you? You're having a little joke?"

"I am not!" cried Charlie, rushing up to the bed and holding out the large and beautiful Golden Ticket for him to see. 

Grandpa Joe leaned forward and took a close look, his nose almost touching the ticket. The others watched him, waiting for the verdict. 

Then very slowly, with a slow and marvelous grin spreading all over his face, Grandpa Joe lifted his head and looked straight at Charlie. The color was rushing to his cheeks, and his eyes were wide open, shining with joy, and in the center of each eye, right in the very center, in the black pupil, a little spark of wild excitement was slowly dancing.

Then the old man took a deep breath, and suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, an explosion seemed to take place inside him. He threw up his arms and yelled "Yippeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" And at the same time, his long bony body rose up out of the bed and his bowl of soup went flying into the face of Grandma Josephine, and in one fantastic leap, this old fellow of ninety-six and a half, who hadn't been out of bed these last twenty years, jumped on to the floor and started doing a dance of victory in his pajamas. 

"Yippeeeeeeee!" he shouted. "Three cheers for Charlie! Hip, hip, hooray!" 

Roald Dahl, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory  

Dance in your pjs and smash some cake onto your face this weekend, story makers. My little nephew will most definitely be doing the same. (And who's kidding who? I'll likely be joining him.)
xo Britt