Trevor (00:02.073)
Hi and welcome to the Write Things podcast. In this episode, I have the honour of sharing 15 pieces that members of the Write Things community created during this past summer season. I'm Trevor Martens, your host and a 16-year professional teacher, writing coach and founder of I Help You Write Things. My work right now is to help people who don't believe that they have the ability, technique or right to tell their story to do so. Each of these writers have dedicated these past three months to learn how
to not only write, but to live as writers. And they all started in different places, but I can tell you they're all heading in the same direction. They all want to improve their craft, find their voice, and create their next work for the world. If you enjoy these stories, I've got two asks of you first. Please share this episode with someone else. Stories mean different things to different people, but when they're written honestly, authentically, and originally like these ones are,
There's always someone out there who will want or maybe even need to hear it. So thank you in advance for putting it out there. And secondly, if you find yourself thinking like I could never write like that after hearing one or more of these stories, know that every single one of these writers have felt the same. That's a sign of being inspired. Use it to start to tell your own stories because honestly, I truly believe that the world needs them now more than ever. And so without further ado,
Free from commentary, explanation, or apology, here are the works of the courageous writers I had the honour of working with over these past few months. I hope you enjoy. Hi, my name is Jill Richot, and this piece is called SIDGES. I'm stopped in my tracks. I look around, curious why my body decided to stop here, unbidden by my brain, while my mom continues to walk ahead of me.
I stand on big stone steps next to the Mediterranean Sea, only 30 minutes south of Barcelona. The stones are a creamy grey chipped and warmed by the sun. The salty breeze tickles my face. A beach half full of tourists and locals stretches behind me. Whitewashed homes with wood shutters dot the beachfront. Flowers adorn their windowsills and the watery air comforts me.
Trevor (02:29.399)
After a small tiff before breakfast, the threads of a complicated relationship, we continue to weave an ocean away from home. My mom and I spent the morning looking for things she remembered from the years she lived here with her best friend. We had just found the building she lived in and were walking barefoot on the beach, lost in thought. I breathe deeply and look ahead at the small Spanish town.
Now the self-declared gay capital of Spain, an old stone archway leads into a maze of narrow streets. As I take in the aroma of sizzling seafood and saffron mingled with the freshness of the Mediterranean, I instantly understand why my mom speaks so fondly of this place. It was an expat town then. She and her friend worked as servers in a local tavern. After their shifts, they take the last train to Barcelona
and spend their days lazing on its big beaches, wandering its lively streets and taking in its infamous art. A vision of a younger version of her dances into my view, leaning against the seawall, the wind whipping her nearly black hair across her face, her hazel eyes bright and shining. Now almost 30 years later, she's brought me here. Amid my reverie,
A sound distinguishes itself from the waves and wafts into my ear. Gentle and slow at first, then urgent and passionate and back again. My heart reaches out to it and my eyes search for the source. On my left, I regard a man, dark haired and olive skinned, sitting on more stone steps leading up to a small church. He holds his guitar like a lover, plucking at its strings with an ethereal knowing.
eyes closed, chin lifted. His gold ring glints in the sunlight as he plays, the music flowing into the sea. The entire scene cements itself into my memory with each note. A smile crosses my lips. This cannot be real. The musical spell is momentarily broken as I look around, certain a movie camera will come around the corner. There's nothing.
Trevor (04:53.145)
Just a man playing Spanish guitar by the sea and me standing there witnessing it. I blush at my luck and try to retain every second. My mom has turned back, seeing me entranced. I felt the same way the first time I came here. She whispers into my ear. I look into her eyes and see mine staring back at me. She wraps her arm around my shoulders and we remain there for a while.
When my feet finally begin to walk again, I lean my head into her shoulder. Bring my ashes here one day, she whispers and kisses my head. I smile, certain. I will, I promise her. I look back and see our footprints in the sand. Mine veer off here, hers continue straight ahead. I wrap my arm around her waist, somehow knowing
This will be one of the last times we truly understand each other. The crash of the waves returns, drowning out the man's song.
Trevor (06:01.487)
Hi, this is Carl Weir, and this is my story, The Breaking Point. Todd just called to cancel out on dinner. Landry stood over an otherwise occupied stand, her husband of 29 years, who was communing with an onscreen rugby game from the comfort of his well-worn recliner. Oblivious, Landry muttered, shaking her head as she watched him ravage a family-sized bag of Cheetos.
with the lusted might of a bear out of hibernation. He was dressed in navy-striped boxers and a white undershirt, which was now dusted with a runway of cheese powder. Landry sighed, shifting her weight as she awaited Stan's release from his sport spell, all the while thinking he was the picture of what not to marry. Nowadays, the idiot box was on more than off, and the constant drone of the drivel
was starting to feel like a worm edging its way under her skin. Stan, she demanded, blocking the urge to expel a string of ear-splitting expletives at him. The effort reminded Landry of her one and only visit to the ballet, a Mother's Day gift that her and her daughter front row on the first balcony.
She'd seen little of the two and a half hour performance because she was too busy resisting the urge to jump over the railing. High place phenomenon was a thing she discovered after looking it up on the internet. Huh? Stan mumbled, eyes glued zombie-like to the on-screen action, hand to bag, hand to mouth. The masticating resounded in her ears, ricocheting around her skull.
The sight of him reminded her of watching over her toddler siblings on Sunday mornings as they sat trans-like while watching cartoons. Her parents would be busy recovering from the weekly dirty martini extravaganza at the Saturday night block party. Being a teen meant the babysitting duty was hers by default. Get them some cereal and turn on the tube.
Trevor (08:18.341)
Her mother would groan whilst pulling the pillow over her face. Landry had obliged most begrudgingly to the forced labour. Once the rugrats were in front of the TV, Landry would hand them the entire box of sugar-laden Froot Loops. She'd show them, the ones who lolled about nursing hangovers. Stanley! Landry hated using Stan's full name. It felt creepy, like she was his mother.
but she knew it was the only strategy to get his attention. She'd figured its use conjured up some childhood trigger of parental punitory fallout. What's up? He asked, squeezing the muscles of his forehead. His tolerance face, thought Landry. The Kiwis are playing the Americans, he near pleaded, while brushing the hot orange soot onto her mint green carpeting.
Stan arched his eyebrows, adding a gestured nod toward the television. Landry felt a familiar heated flush course up her neck, intensifying it as it rounded the contour of her ears. She furled her fingers, nail ends biting into her palms. Our anniversary dinner, Todd called and canceled, says our darling daughter-in-law has some kind of online meditation group.
Well, we'll just have to reschedule." Landry's eyes bugged. She had visions of shaking Stan, his Cheetos flying like erupting lava. The venue's booked. It's fancy. We paid a deposit. I hired a photographer. Okay then, if they don't want to come, they miss out. Miss out? Landry had never heard the pitch of her voice so high. It's not that simple, Stan.
Todd is one of our children and he should be at this important milestone. Besides, if Todd and Rain don't come, neither will our only grandchild. What do want me to do about it? Talk to Todd, that's what. He'll listen to you. But I'll miss the game. Was Stan actually whining? Landry realized in that moment that seeing Red was a real thing.
Trevor (10:46.095)
She had been in the middle of making a brown Betty in the middle of the day in what she'd imagined was the middle of her marriage. But was it? She thought of a Cosmo article she'd read with good advice on what to do if your partner has passive aggressive tendencies. Stanley Ernest Beechmont, should you decide not to intervene in this, there will not be a 30th wedding anniversary to celebrate.
Hi, my name is Michelle Ramseth, and this is my piece called Time to Leave. She closed the door softly, as if the faint click might stir the anger and betrayal behind it. Each step down the stairs felt uncertain, too slow to be confident, too steady to be accidental. Maybe part of her still hoped he'd come after her. Maybe her body was just in shock. She glanced
upward for guidance and caught sight of the chandelier. It had seemed so glamorous the first time she saw it, hanging from the high ceiling of what she once thought was a hip apartment building. She felt lucky, showing up here on the arm of Mr. Tall, Dark, and So Handsome. Now, under the harsh light of morning, she noticed the cigarette butts ground into the stairs, the trash near the door.
The chip trim around the frame. This place was falling apart. Maybe it always had been. Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle. Her whole body was vibrating. Molecules on edge, scattered. She shut her eyes and bit her lip, then yanked the door open and stepped into the day. She fumbled for her phone, nearly dropping it as her mind and body refused to cooperate.
Hey, dad, can you come get me? Her voice cracked. Yeah, I'm okay. Just, just come. He would without hesitation, but shame curled around her chest like barbed wire. She hated that she had to ask. She sank onto the front steps. She wanted to scream, cry, punch a hole in the wall. Mostly she wanted answers.
Trevor (13:15.973)
Five years of memories now felt like someone else's life. She really thought he loved her. That's what you get for thinking. Her grandmother's voice echoed in her mind, warm, teasing, a little too true. A breeze stirred her hair, and with it came the memory. This morning, she'd arrived expecting the usual. Tom at the table, drinking coffee, reading the paper, sweating out last night's liquor.
But the kitchen was empty. The coffee was fresh and scent lingered in the air. Perfume, sweet, musky, unfamiliar. Dread tightened her gut. She moved towards the bedroom on instinct. Tom was sprawled across the bed, passed out cold, pillow creases on his cheek, a trail of drool at the corner of his mouth. She almost laughed until she saw the long
dark hair draped across the second pillow.
Rachel plucked up a strand and held it next to her own. It was longer, softer, definitely not hers. The floor creaked under her feet and suddenly the whole building felt like it was pressing in on her. That same sun that once lit the room so beautifully now baked the stench of age into her skin. She turned to the wall and saw the photo. The one of them at the beach, arms around each other, her smile full of hope.
She pulled it down and slipped the photo from the frame. Holding it to her heart, she shut her eyes. How had she believed she was the one? She ripped the photo into pieces and dropped them one by one onto the empty pillow. He loves me not, she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks like hot wax. The crunch of tires on gravel pulled her back.
Trevor (15:18.885)
Her dad was here. She couldn't manage a smile, but she stood. She walked towards the car, legs like driftwood, hollow and splintered. And yet something nudged her forward. A strange hush like the wind holding its breath. Rachel turned back for a final glance at 666 Moreland Avenue, apartment number seven. No going back.
If you're somebody who would like to start to tell your story, I have something that you might be interested in. A lot of writers that I've worked with wrote when they were younger or they write sporadically, but they struggle to finish and put their works out there. like, gosh, you could even be a writer who hasn't started writing yet. That is a thing, regardless of your current skill, age, experience. I'm telling you that if you feel called to write, you are a writer and I want to help you do it. That's why I created my I'll make you a writer webinar. It's really the blueprint.
to for not only overcoming the inner critic, but learning self trust and how to write creatively and to create those original stories that we're here to tell. Check it out. I guarantee you, you're not going to find anything else like it on the internet. And as a as of the time of this podcast, it's 100 % free on my website. I help you write things dot com. Give it a listen. I promise you're going to take something of value from it. Now on to the next story. Hi.
My name is Denis Fortier and the title of my piece is Bugle Boy of Company B.
That's the ticket, little Johnny thought as he carefully reached for the black case resting atop the stack of boxes that lined the cellar wall. Gently, he retrieved his pa's trumpet from the well-travelled leather case and proceeded confidently to Lily's basement bedroom. Lily's lair, his da called it. He knocked and rudely opened the bedroom door, giving his sister one last chance to rouse.
Trevor (17:25.965)
A grey glow of embryonic daylight bled through the thin curtains of the tiny basement window. Lily, wake up! It's time for school, he shouted. As suspected, the bed bump did not stir. A tangled mass of auburn hair laced blade over the flattened pillow. He approached the motionless mound on the bed, six feet, four feet, two feet.
Little Johnny inhaled deeply as he raised his Daz horn to his mouth. Lips pressed tightly on the silver mouthpiece, he exhaled forcefully through the purse, vibrating lips. His bursting cheeks, like those of a busy chipmunk, blew warm air through convoluted brass curves. Johnny pressed and released the pistons in rapid succession for good measure, imagining that he played the bugle at dawn.
like his papa had for the troops in the Great War. Lily rose from the dead in a flash. Every fibre in her body detonated simultaneously, triggered by the sudden and unexpected release of adrenaline. She exploded upright and shrieking, perched like a dangerous predator on her mattress, hunched and ready to pounce. Huge bloodshot eyes popped from her ghostly pale cheeks.
Blind with rage and fear, she strained to focus, searching for the source of her sudden awakening. Sleep lines crossed her face like Celtic rune sticks, and a large purple vessel pulsated in the middle of her forehead, ready to burst. Little Johnny, feet glued to the ground, sensed an unfamiliar frisson of fear tingle the back of his scalp. Lily's eyes narrowed and focused on her prey.
The shrieking suddenly ceased. A primal, low-pitched growl arose from the banshee he had resurrected. The tingling shiver nesting on the nape of Little Johnny's neck, where his short black hairs stood at fearful attention, shot down to the tip of his tailbone, where his terror expressed itself as an undeniable, uncontrollable clenching of his sphincter.
Trevor (19:51.374)
The throaty moans quickly intensified to an ethereal wail as the Irish revenant of his nightmares proclaimed his impending demise. The banshee lurched towards him. Little Johnny's paralysis cured. His small, terrified carcass turned and flew out of the bedroom like a bat out of hell with a redheaded goal in lethal pursuit.
Through the maze of boxes lining the cellar walls, little Johnny sprinted upstairs. Johnny's mam and her friends sat smoking and drinking their coffee around the tiny kitchen table. The ladies were gathered around the radio that Mrs. Dooley had brought over, and they were listening intently to WGM Chicago's morning show when they heard the commotion. The woman was startled and confused when little Johnny erupted from the basement stairwell in his Brooks
brothers boxers and a bugle, followed by screeching, spitting blur of white flannel and flaming ginger. The murderous spirit, seeing potential witnesses in the home, quickly vanished, and in its place, fourteen-year-old Lily appeared and proceeded to collapse to the linoleum, sobbing and spent in a trembling heap. Little Johnny O'Connor lived to bugle another day.
In 1940, at the age of 22, he would be asked to bugle the wake-up call, like his da before him, as an enlisted recruit of the United States Combat Engineers Battalion, also known as Company B.
Hello, my name is Christine Dawson and this is a piece called Bill and Two Foothills. Cigarette smoke, car exhaust and warm pavement blow into her nose as she exits the emergency room, smudged sliding glass doors 14 hours later. The bright morning sunshine highlights the greasy, dirty road fronting Foothills Medical Center, strewn with butts and litter speck.
Trevor (22:02.741)
spilling out of the garbage. A patient gives her a furtive, guilty glance as he smokes, hunched over in a wheelchair with ivy pole and full bag dripping. She makes her way slowly to the one lonely car parked in the emergency lot. With a sigh, she hopes she was not ticketed. The old Volvo door protests and she eases into the seat. She starts the engine.
and leans her head on the steering wheel for a long moment, trying to catch her breath, tears dripping off her chin. The worry has been debilitating. She has been afraid to leave him alone. Worn out questions crowd her brain as she makes her way around the huge hospital campus to the main road, navigating many speed bumps. How do you explain to young teenage daughters that their dad is too ill to come home?
that having him admitted to the psych ward was the safest place for him to be. How do you explain how suicidal he was? How to not mention all the goodbye notes she had found to address to them and the full flawless plan their dad had outlined in his journal. Thank God she had found his notes to show to the psychiatric team and more importantly, before the girls found them. Bill was a good actor.
He claimed all he needed was some medication to sleep and he would be okay. He would have talked his way out of being admitted. He is terribly, terribly angry with her. He had screamed, let me go. If I have not figured it out by now, I never will. She had left him, zap strapped to a gurney.
It was an evil relief she felt, drained knowing he was safe, but now what? Shock therapy, more drugs that leave him empty, anhedonic, a shell half alive. The last series of ketamine dosing had only created false hope and an empty bank account. It is the devil's disease, ever taking, ever relentless, ever scary.
Trevor (24:24.055)
She refuses to let it win. The well can become empty when you witness someone you love constantly suffering from mental illness. It is like holding your breath, not knowing if you will ever be able to take a full breath again. So you survive on little mini breaths, sneaking them in when you can and hoping it is enough to keep you going. She prays, God help me, God help Bill.
and cancel my questions there are no answers for. She breathes deeply to refocus. One, two, three, four, five. God, she needed a nap. She had to pull it together, be on the pool deck at 3.30 p.m. today for work and plan dinner for her girls, make a bunch of calls. This is what she can do.
and another day begins.
Hi, I'm Alicia Taylor and this is the Hitchhiking Angel.
Full of rage, the air is thick with guilt and there is nothing left to do but scream. This is me running away again, only this time I had just abandoned my dog, the only thing keeping me human. I had to get out of there and away from him. He's going to kill me or I'm going to kill myself. This is who I am. I am nothing and no one. This was my thought process when I saw him, the hitchhiker, the fallen angel, the man.
Trevor (26:03.629)
who for that odd day would become my traveling companion. As I passed the thumbs up, I saw it was attached to a tall, slender, native man whose face was completely tattooed. I basically slammed on the brakes. Good, I thought to myself as I pulled over and reversed. The impulsive decision was sure to deliver the punishment I was determined to inflict on myself. shank you, he said breathlessly as he got in.
He was younger than I thought and clearly had a lisp. Where are you going? I asked as I slipped the car into gear and pulled back onto the highway. Winnipeg, but I'll go at the thought if you can take me, he answered with a childlike innocence. My defenses instantly relaxed a few decibels. Once he began to talk, he had the mentality of maybe a 12 year old. Jesus, I thought to myself as I listened to him explain his situation. Clearly some higher power
has intervened in my plan to self-destruct. I couldn't help but smile a little, something I did not expect to happen ever again, nevermind so soon. I tried to focus on what he was saying as I brought my driving pace to a normal speed. He was named James, as they most often are. He had come to the PAW with a girl he had met a week ago, and after he ran out of money, she took off after robbing his new Jodan's. He told me,
He wanted to be a gangster rapper and that's why he got all the tattoos. When I asked him to share some of his songs with me, he sheepishly said he didn't have any yet. I figured he needed a tough exterior for safety, something I knew all about. As I got to know James, I diagnosed him with FAS and autism. I was amazed he made it this far and was thoroughly intrigued by his story. I noticed my urge to use
subsided a little. It's not that I wouldn't have shared, I always seemed to have plenty of drugs, but I didn't want to expose this kid to such a thing. I told him a little about my life and all I had lost because of my bad decisions. I told him that life isn't about showing other people what you're made of and more about proving to yourself that you matter. I told him I understand and that we must try to survive, but at the same time
Trevor (28:28.109)
Let's not become products of the harsh environment we live in. We talked for the entire eight hour trip, stopping for lunch and gas at the end of the Easterville turnoff. I used up the last of my stashed away change for a two piece chicken meal that we shared. Once we got to the Stonewall exit, I pulled over, gave him a couple of cigarettes and the map out of my glove box and pointed him towards the Winnipeg perimeter. He was reluctant to get out.
I may have let my guard down, but I still wasn't about to drive him to the exact location. Besides, I kinda wanted to live now.
Hi, my name's Karis Penner and I'm gonna read my piece called Stutter. When I was young, dad used to tell people I developed a stutter because mom had suffered with terrible hiccups when she was pregnant with me. I always figured it was his clever way of deflecting attention, trying to spare me the awkward glances when people knelt down and asked me a question. Maybe he thought he was protecting me from the puzzled expressions as they waited for me to get my words out.
or worse, they tried to finish my sentences. But sometimes I wondered if it was really about sparing himself the embarrassment of having a son who stutters. My parents prayed my stuttered would improve once I started school, but it didn't. Instead, I learned how to be quiet, how to become invisible. People overlooked me to ease their own discomfort of having to wait and see what I wanted to say.
So I hardly spoke at all. The school suggested a speech pathologist. Mom looked into it, but the office was all the way in the city, a full hour's drive each way. Living on a farm meant long hours in the fields, garden, the barn, the yard, and the kitchen. And so good intentions mixed with good excuses blended with time until I came to believe that I would always have a stutter.
Trevor (30:34.915)
Teachers rarely called on me and classmates excluded me. Unengaged, my mind wandered out the window. That's when I first noticed the movement of robins. The way their bodies moved, twitchy and fidgety, like they had a stutter of the body. They ran, stopped abruptly, tilted their heads skywards, then jerked their gaze at the ground, hunting. Hop, run, pause. Hop, run, pause, over and over.
But when they flew, when they flew, they became something else entirely. They flapped and rose, lifted into the sky, gracefully gliding above the schoolyard, over the houses, higher and higher, beyond the treetops. How smooth they looked, how free they must feel, leaving behind their awkward staccato movements here on earth. I long to feel that ease as well.
I discovered my own version of flying the day I picked up a paintbrush and moved a dollop of paint along my paper. The flow, the sound of the brush made me feel light and graceful and I began to paint as much as I could. Shapes turned into rivers and trees, flowers and fields. I forgot all about my stutter when I painted and could express myself more beautifully on paper than I ever could with words.
Everything I wanted to say could be expressed in colors and textures, streaks and smears decorating the page. My hand became my mouth, my paint became my speech. In seventh grade, I learned cursive writing and started answering mom by writing my response and looping script on a notepad. She'd watch as my pencil moved across the page, forming high loops and low tails of the letters.
Then smiled as I turned the paper towards her to read what I had written. Dad didn't see it that way. He thought it was a waste of paper and time. He said I should be learning to talk, not draw. He told me he knew all kinds of people who lost their stutter because they tried hard enough, but I never met any of them. My passion only intensified.
Trevor (32:50.777)
My name is Katrinas Mavik and I'm going to be reading an excerpt from the novel I'm working on. My gaze settles on a figure in the corner of the cafe. It's too tall, arms too long, fingers too gnarled, and silhouette too black to be human. My stomach clenches and bile floods my mouth. I instinctively swallow it down, coughing at the acidic burn. The thing doesn't move.
The patrons at the table nearest it don't pay it any mind. I glance around at the other customers, but they're the same. Not paying attention, not seeing. I blink hard. Maybe it'll go away. Maybe it was just the light, my eyes playing tricks. But it's still there, lurking, looming. It has a head, but no face. It is itself a shadow, but it doesn't create one.
I close my eyes again, rub hard at the eyelids. You're just tired, I mumble. It's not there, nothing's there. One last deep breath, I brace myself and open my eyes. The figure is here, in front of me. It blots out the light, blocks my view of the cafe. Breath catching in my throat, saliva pooling in my cheeks and heartbeat hammering in my ears. I stare at what must be its chest.
My gaze settles toward its feet. Tattered rags whisper against the floor. A black, viscous liquid, molasses-like, grabs onto the fraying edges and pulls away in thick globs. It pools at its feet. It has long nails, talon-like, maybe four inches long. They're stained black and gray, the sharpened tips only centimeters from the floor for how long its arms are.
The hand nearest me raises, and I squirm to the seat beside me, knocking my back back to the floor. But I don't register the noise. All I see, all I know, is that hand, those fingers, those nails approaching me. Its back curls as the hand nears, head looming above mine. Slowly, slowly, like a child reaching toward a shiny treasure, shy and scared it might disappear.
Trevor (35:17.023)
or like a predator, move too quickly and its meal would flee. Predators don't like to be left hungry. There's a raspy inhale, wind through drying wheat, and a whispery moan of an exhale, temptation that's been ignored too long, brought to life. Eyes wide, I whimper, quiet but there. Its face splits to reveal sharp yellowed teeth.
The molasses-like fluid slurping as lips part, strings thinning until they snap. Fear is delicious, and I must be a feast. My eyes squeeze shut as a nail touches my cheek, then rough fingers, slimy with the tar fluid, descend toward my neck. The hand finds its place along sensitive skin, fingertips pressed into nape, thumb against jugular vein. It's going to kill me.
My eyes wrench open, wanting to at least look at the thing as it kills me, a fire sparking in my gut, only to blink rapidly. It's gone. I gasp, frantic eyes darting around the cafe. There's no sign of it, not even the pool of black liquid on the floor. Had I imagined it? I reach for my neck and my fingers come away gooey. I press a covered thumb and finger together, watching the strings break as I pull them apart.
I stare at my blackened fingertips for what feels like hours, but could have been seconds. I hastily reach for a napkin, knocking over my latte. The mug falls to the floor with a crash, loud, echoing in my ears. But instead of tending to the spilled drink, I frantically wipe the napkin against my neck, the thin paper scratching the skin. But rubbed raw red is better than molasses black. Branded.
Hello, my name is Christine Churchill and my piece is entitled The Key to Connection. During my final two years as a full-time school administrator, I worked with four boys who each had a diagnosed learning challenge. We met daily during their grade seven and eight years for a literacy class where we reviewed the content of core academic subjects, reinforced study skills, and applied accommodations.
Trevor (37:42.251)
Jacob's ADHD made it very difficult for him to focus for an extended period of time or to recall or apply information. However, even though he struggled academically, it was clear that Jacob did not want to be part of the literacy class because it made him different and separated him from his friends. His reluctance to engage was also manifested in his direct interactions with me. He avoided all eye contact or communication, whether getting off the school bus,
passing through the halls or even when we were in class. One day in the middle of grade seven, as we were beginning preparation for a social studies project, William pointed out that one of the details I had shared in yesterday's class differed from their teacher's instructions that morning. I acknowledged that I had misunderstood the material and got that part wrong. Jacob looked up quickly and seemed confused. I don't think I've ever heard a teacher admit they made a mistake. I heard him mumble, shaking his head.
William tapped intentionally on their notebook page and Jacob's attention returned to the task at hand. The next day, we continued our project preparation and my attention was focused on Xavier and Alan, who had asked if I could help them edit their PowerPoint presentation. Suddenly, from across the room, Jacob called out loudly, Dr. Churchill, I have a question about the definition of a word here. It was my time to look up confused. As too did Xavier, William and Alan.
It took me less than a minute to explain the confusing term, but that conversation was the beginning of a new Jacob. While he continued to lose focus in class, toss pens aimlessly in the air, or roll his eyes at the mere mention of poetry analysis, I grew accustomed to him stopping me in the hallway to inform me of a new assignment, or asking me as he entered the classroom, can we work on our lab report today?
The proximity of these two small events is relevant, I believe, in revealing a truth about teaching. We seem to think as adults that students or children will only respect us or listen to us when we present as knowledgeable or in command of information or a situation. However, I have often found the opposite to be true, that students would become more open to instruction and guidance when I was willing to acknowledge my uncertainty or the fact that I was still and always would be learning with them.
Trevor (40:07.273)
A case in point, a few months later, I met with the Lit Boys, their self-chosen moniker, during the final period of their day and after my weekly three-hour admin meeting. Jacob was extremely unfocused and I had attempted to redirect him a few times. Suddenly, his pen whizzed past my head and landed at Alan's feet. It would be accurate to say that I lost my temper completely. Good God, man, are you trying to piss me off, I queried.
followed by a quick order for Jacob to keep his hands in his pockets for the rest of the class. He complied. At the end of the period, we met at the doorway and now chagrined by my behaviour, I acknowledged my harsh response and asked Jacob how he was doing. A bit better than you are, I think, he replied and held out his hand, offering to shake mine.
Hi, I'm Josie Marks and this is my piece inspired by the word withheld. A complicated relationship at best, an abusive upbringing at its worst. At 6 a.m. on a Wednesday, I picked up the phone and called my father. Hello, answered my stepmother. It's me, I'm on my way. Okay. How is he? Are you kidding? He's scared.
He didn't get any sleep. Within 15 minutes, my father was in the passenger seat of my car and we were on our way to the hospital's day surgery department. I could see on his face what my stepmother had told me, despite his attempt at a conversation focused on everything he didn't like about my car. At least it's the car he's picking on this time and not me, I thought.
We were sitting in the pre-op area, a stale room overflowing with patients wearing drab hospital gowns when the phenomenon of a parent becoming the child and the child apparent presented itself. Are all these people here for a hernia procedure too? He asked me. Yes, I replied, pretending to know. I knew it would bring him comfort to think he wasn't the only one. Even that kid.
Trevor (42:27.615)
He nodded towards a 20-something year old. Yes. My father's body relaxed slightly and he leaned back into his chair. He continued to study the other patients. What I noticed about them was that unlike my father, they were alone with no one to comfort them, distract them or remind them that everything would be okay. A nurse walked up to me and whispered that my father looked very nervous to her.
I can give him a little something to help, she said in a calm, kind tone of voice. Yes, please, I replied, having turned my back slightly to my father to block her voices from reaching his ears. She returned with a small plastic cup of water and even a smaller one with a single pill in it. Dad, I said, this is to help with the procedure.
He took it without hesitation. A few minutes later, his name was called. I stood, hooked my arm around his and walked him to the doorway where the attendant was standing. I kissed my father on the cheek and said, okay, see you in a little bit. In the afternoon, I was called to pick him up. When I entered his room, I saw he was alert. You won't believe this, he said, but I fell asleep while the doctors were working on me.
You're kidding, I replied, smirking. Once he was comfortable at home, he began calling his friends to let them know everything went well and, of course, how he had fallen asleep. Unbelievable, I heard him say. I handed my stepmother the list of instructions given to us at the time of my father's discharge. For the next six weeks, no driving, no lifting, no stairs, do walk.
but only around the house. Two days later, I received a call from my father. He was in tears. He had attempted to walk down the street to a friend's house and nearly collapsed. I responded by yelling at him. What's wrong with you? The doctor told you you couldn't leave the house. I told you you couldn't leave the house, but no, the doctors are stupid and so am I. You, you on the other hand, know everything. Suddenly it hit me.
Trevor (44:54.571)
He had called me for comfort and as I, and I had, sorry, I screwed up. I'll start that line again. Suddenly it hit me. He had called me for comfort as I had called him many times. And I responded by being cruel as he had done to me. I found myself hating him for being who he was and hating myself even more for having behaved like him. And now I was the one in tears.
I never yelled at my father again, and I also never told him that that little pill he had taken on that morning was to make him sleep.
Trevor (45:35.745)
I'm Emily Mitchell and this is a piece from my junk drawer sessions. Welcome to my junk drawer. A junk drawer full of surprises, treasures, and a bunch of misplaced shit. Today, friends, this is a somewhat recycled junk drawer session because I think I need to hear it again. We will be talking, ranting, venting, about shoulding. Have you ever shoulded yourself? I should have tried harder.
I should have gone to bed earlier. I should have said I'm sorry. I should have exercised today. I should not have eaten the whole bag of chips. I should not have drank the whole bottle of wine. Pick your poison. Shitting is a hard habit to break. And I know more than anyone, I've spent a good portion of my life shitting. I should have tried harder in my marriage. I should have tried harder to recover from my back injury. I should have got a better education.
I should be doing more for my back injury. I should have given myself more grace. Bam! That one stings. After reading a few articles, it appears shooting actually makes you feel more helpless, which can further diminish your sense of self-esteem. Ouch! While I was on vacation a few winters ago, I signed up for a snorkeling tour. I knew it would be a challenge with my back injury.
My head had no problem telling me all the shoulding things. You shouldn't be jumping off a boat into the ocean. You shouldn't be attempting to breathe through a snorkel. You shouldn't be swimming in a current where someone might have to come and rescue. Sure enough, after jumping in, well, let's be real, it was more like falling in with a nudge from someone's foot. I did struggle to breathe. I wrestled to swim in the current. I almost called for help.
At one point I was treading water. What a fabulous life analogy. And my inner voice, who can be a real asshole, came at me with all the shoulds. You should have no problem breathing through the snorkel because you've done a ton of yoga breathing. You should have worked harder to strengthen your lower back muscles for swimming. Whatever you do, you should not call for help. Put your ass in gear and swim back to the boat just like everyone else. Ouch, again.
Trevor (47:59.026)
I would never talk to a friend or even an acquaintance like that, but my inner voice had no problem spewing, shitting crap to me, me, the most important person in my life. I've spent many, and let me accentuate this, many years shitting myself, and I can tell you this, this methodology has definitely taken some of the wonder out of life. I do not recommend. Zero stars.
Some of the articles suggested replacing should with I wish and to follow up with I'm trying my best today and I accept where I am in this process. So let's try this together. I wish it was easier to breathe through the snorkel. I'm trying my best and I did get to see some really pretty fish. I even started to get the hang of it near the end. I wish it was easier to swim in a current.
But I did pretty good for someone with $60,000 of hardware in their spine. I got to go back to the boat on my own, and I'm proud of that. I wish I was more willing to ask for help. I'm working on it, and I'm 100 % getting better at this. Shooting seems to rob you, well, okay, me, of joy and wonder and excitement. It appears to be an innocent word, and yet it leaves a nasty taste in your mouth.
like the next morning after too many tequila shots, which I should not have done. Wink, wink. I have broken up with words before and maybe it's time me and should should break up. Ha ha. Thank you for coming to my junk drawer session and you should work on giving yourself more grace. Whoa, let's rejig that. My wish is you are able to give yourself more grace and enjoy the wonder of life today because you are worth it.
And with that, the junk drawer session is closed for today.
Trevor (50:00.946)
Hi, I'm Brenda Hunter and this is a piece that I'm working on for my memoir. When I made the decision to leave my husband 17 years ago, I made the decision to keep at least one thing he had given me, his last name. I justified that everyone knew me by that name, both personally and professionally, and changing it back to my maiden name would be too much of a hassle. For simplicity's sake,
It made sense that I had the same last name as my kids as they entered middle middle years.
That was the story I'd told myself for many years, the real reason as to why I kept it only recently revealing itself.
I started going to a gym out of town, carpooling with some other gals from the town where I now live. I'd never met them before until the gym, and so it took a while to get to know one another. A few weeks in, Coralie and I would find ourselves as passengers in the back seat, en route to our latest CrossFit class.
You're from Harding originally, she began, half questioning, half stating. No one knows of the Blinken you'll miss at dot on the map unless you know someone who's lived there. I can tell she's done some homework since last week. Yes, I stretched out my response, unsure of what was coming next. Pleased with the answer she expected, she continued.
Trevor (51:38.744)
then you'll know my friend Sherry. She's like my best friend in the whole world. I paused for a moment, carefully weighing my options and discerning what I was going to say next. Yes, yes, I do. We are actually distantly related, I finally settled on. Yeah, she mentioned that she continued. I now realize she knows more about my backstory.
story than she'd first let on. Feeling the need to explain somewhat, I continued, skimming over the family history lesson. Yeah, my dad and her grandpa were first cousins, so her mom and I are third cousins, or whatever that makes us. She nodded, then looked back toward the windshield. Several moments passed. I knew that interrogation wasn't over. So Hunter is your maiden name?
No, no, I quickly corrected. Hunter is my ex-husband's name. I kept it after we divorced, offering the same explanation I had always referenced.
I glanced out the window, watching another mile roll on by before I spoke again. My maiden name is Belle, I finally confessed, silently cringing at the way the word sounded. yeah, duh, of course it is, she scolded herself, seeming to know that Sherry's mom had been a Belle too.
The conversation continued and was light. But that night, I lay awake considering the underlying meaning nestled beneath our discussion.
Trevor (53:21.106)
While it is true that I didn't change my name from Hunter when we divorced, I realized that it had less to do with convenience than I had originally admitted. The truth was, I didn't want my old name back. I didn't want to be associated with the name Belle. That was until my sweet little granddaughter was born. Her parents, my son and his wife, named this tiny, perfect little human being Bellamy. And in doing so,
paid unintentional homage to my maiden name in a roundabout sort of way.
The name Belle now has a whole new meaning for me. Sometimes it is still hard for me to say her name, for it conjures up a whole host of undesirable memories associated with my old last name. But that's not her fault. She is perfect. Perfectly innocent. Perfectly beautiful. Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy. I think I can get used to saying it again.
It's not about me anymore. Hi, my name is Catherine Smallwood. This piece is called Unlit Candle and it came from a prompt within the community that was titled Candles. Cher grew up in a rigid household. Lit candles were outlawed. Ancestral ways tightly followed.
Family life had been restrictive, but young Cher fought to engage in horizon-expanding battles. She had always voyaged via books, always had an ear tuned to new languages. She was fascinated by cultural festivals, adored immersion in the colors, sights, and sounds of diverse neighborhoods. Traveling gave adult Cher the freedom to embrace the world with open arms
Trevor (55:25.574)
She tried every different food, took part in every wild adventure, learned to communicate viscerally, using her whole body to tell stories to eager children. She danced her way into multiple celebrations and shared many one-sided, mysterious conversations using only a pocket-sized guide to Spanish or Italian or fill in the blank.
In smoky Asian temples, incense and candles fed her appreciative curiosity about different customs. In Thailand, her appetite loosened, she noted the strict etiquette, dressed discreetly to enter temples, sat on floors with her rude, pointing feet hidden, learned not to offend by touching another's sacred head. She was quick to discern that the sacred was a bonus.
in Thai beauty salons. Tiny smiling Thai women massaged your scalp with reverence until your slimy hot adult self almost slid off the cracked vinyl chairs. You held on. It was spiritual having hair, fingernails and toes done all at the same time. Three sweet laughing women adoring your light skin.
and pampering you in your heat altered state. In Asia, her brain and body turned into different shapes, like the transformation of chicken or steak seared at high heat on the barbecue. The forbidden lit candle was replaced by brain plasticity's experiences. Unfortunately, life and death
began to impede Cher's ability to pick up and go. The last decade or so, family commitments have crept into her freewheeling life. She missed the thrill of new. So, when a young Amy showed up as a home helper, Cher gravitated to her. Amy, with her naivety and small town innocence, excited to try new things.
Trevor (57:48.066)
Amy has been Cher's opportunity to re-experience the world through new eyes. Cher has introduced Amy to theatre, art, and books. They've gone to multiple cultural events. Amy's exuberance initially captivated Cher, but lately she's become jaded by Amy's lack. Cher is perpetually pulled to go deeper. Amy is not.
Today they are meeting in Cher's favorite foodie spot. She wants to talk to Amy about how she's feeling. She spots her at their regular booth in the back. For you, Amy calls out as Cher approaches. Amy's goofy grin matches the wildly colored paper of the small bag. She's waving in the air. Cher reaches across the table to intercept the pendulum swing. Amy, what are you doing?
Open it! Amy lets go of the bag. She bounces in her seat. I'm so happy you're here. We're here. We need to celebrate. Sing, dance, be mermaids like in that Dion thingy we saw last year. Play. Black box theatre. Dionysus. We're hardly main ads, but okay. Cher's smile has stiffened. Open it! Cher can feel the weight of the bag.
She sniffs at the scented interior, looks up at Amy's huge eyes and that smile, looks down to pull at the tissue paper. She's preparing herself for what? Disappointment? The false face she needs to present to Amy, this friend who feels more and more like an unlit candle. Her eternal struggle with disillusionment.
She pulls an object out of the bag. Yep. It's another fucking candle. Cher only realizes that she's spoken out loud when she looks up to see Amy's face cracking like the whole world shattering in an earthquake. I'm Marcy Harrison and the name of the piece I'm going to share is Bernie and Sam. Memories. We cling to them when a loved one dies.
Trevor (01:00:13.531)
They comfort us. They keep those who have passed on alive in our hearts. But I have to say, I don't think we're the only ones remembering. It's been said that when we think of a deceased loved one and smile, it's because they're remembering us at the same time. It's like in that moment, we're together again. It's a lovely thought, isn't it? Call me crazy.
But I think that actually does happen. Of course, I don't have any proof, at least not when it comes to humans, but researchers have recently discovered something interesting about butterflies. I won't bore you with the details, but experiments have shown that butterflies remember being caterpillars. So what, Marcy, you might be thinking, and I don't blame you.
but I think there's something here that might help us see death differently.
Now, I don't want to get too graphic about what goes on inside a cocoon, but the truth is, all the caterpillar parts dissolve, even the brain. The only cells that remain intact are what scientists call imaginal discs, which feed off the caterpillar goo and grow to form a butterfly. So, you could say the caterpillar dies, and yet, its memories still live on.
How can that be? No one knows yet, they just know it happens. In some ways, we're not that different than caterpillars. We walk around, we eat a lot, we grow, and then at some point we die, or at least our bodies do. But is it possible that the part that is truly us continues to live on in a new form?
Trevor (01:02:18.64)
Do we have to know how it happens or just that it does? Which got me thinking about those caterpillars and wondering what they talk about when they see an empty cocoon. I mean, if they could talk. Perhaps the conversation would go something like this.
Hey, Sam, did you hear what happened to Ralph? Yeah, Bernie, I heard. They found his empty cocoon. A sad business for sure. It is, but I... I don't know. I feel like, maybe there's life after the cocoon, you know? Geez, Bernie, have you been eating those eucalyptus leaves again? No, I'm sober as a judge and I swear, I saw Ralph.
out of the corner of my eye and he was bright and beautiful and flying. Seriously, don't tell me you've bought into that whole heaven story. Caterpillars getting their wings and rising up to the sky. Balderdash. All I've ever seen are empty cocoons and if you can't see it, it ain't real. Yeah, I used to think so too, Sam, but I don't know.
Maybe you have to leave your cocoon to see it. Like, maybe that's the point, you know? Maybe dying is just moving into a new stage of life that lets you see things differently. It gives you a higher perspective, you know? Like there's more to life than meets the eye. You got pebbles in your head, Bernie? What more could they be than this? It's easy for us to see how much more there is for caterpillars after they die.
It's easy for us to see that inside every caterpillar is a butterfly that will emerge and experience the world in a way caterpillars can't even imagine. Is it such a big stretch to think there is a bigger experience waiting for us?
Trevor (01:04:24.688)
I'm Shana Itavsky. This is a piece I wrote inspired by a prompt, Waking Up.
Trevor (01:04:35.31)
I wake up trying to remember, but I always forget.
There was a dragon, green, gritty, missing teeth. Her scales, her armor, once polished pink. Her eyes pierced mine with yellowed fear. Ancient scathing, light fading.
I remember her lashing out, raging bolts of fire flew as she dove into battle. But she battled the wind. There was no way to win.
I caught a glimpse of her belly flesh, so thin I could see through to her bleeding heart. She stretched wide her scarred old wings. They held her high as her throat crippled in, rippling to the shrill of a searing scream so painful it cracked the sky and it broke my heart. Yet still she fell with quiet grace, lifeless through the sky.
I forgot. She comes back. I know this dragon. Every day I awake, she's there. A battle in my head. Every night I sleep, she eats my memories and steals my dreams.
Trevor (01:06:00.186)
It's not her fault. She's a memory-eating dragon. She eats memories to exist. I don't know why she steals my dreams. But then I don't know that dreams exist. All I know is night after night she battles the wind and my tired heart bleeds.
Something is broken.
I try to hold on to the pieces that make sense, but they're fragments and they drift, so I reinvent.
Once I decided my hair was made of gold, each strand a memory, many distant memories along.
Trevor (01:06:46.192)
Today I stand, looking further than I can. I look to the place where the sky meets the sea. I'm on the shore, and heavy sounds. It's wet beneath my feet. I wiggle my toes so they sink in deep. They root in, telling me to stand my ground. I listen, but I know I'll lose.
I've learned I can't stand against what's rolling in. The wind rolls a 20, I roll a 6. I lose, again and again it goes. But I've learned too to get back up.
So I do, knowing it's best to imagine something new. Today, I'll swim to meet the dragon. I imagine she's waiting at that place where the sky meets the sea.
I swim out all the way into night and now I'm here. But the dragon, she's not. No dragon waits. Only darkness and her stars, the ones who've come to say goodbye.
but it hurts to say goodbye. So I don't.
Trevor (01:08:17.624)
I quietly let go and fall below. I fall slow. And as I do, I imagine the dragon falling too.
She's with me now, asleep at the bottom of the sea, guarding strands of gold.
Trevor (01:08:42.116)
And I wake up trying to remember, but I always forget.
There was a dragon.
All right, this concludes this episode of the right things podcast. Thank you so much for listening. If you enjoyed or inspired by some of the stories that you heard, please share them with somebody else. And if you're somebody who's looking for your own next step in your writing career, go to I help you write things dot com slash newsletter. And there you can access all my old editions of the right things newsletter. In each one, I give a bit of a mindset shift that are a new perspective you can consider that will help you better understand technique.
creativity and how to overcome that inner critic, which I really see is the biggest obstacle that's keeping writers from finishing their stories. I also want to thank all the writers for their courage and their generosity in sharing their stories with the world. I think you guys did great. This is Trevor Martens with I Help You Write Things signing off. I wish you and your stories all the best. See you in the next episode.
