two years before the Staple Incident of 1986.

When I was in grade two, I used to help my teacher, Mrs. Flood, after school. [Mrs. Flood had a talking car, you guys — if you left the door open, it would say the door is ajar, which was hilarious because the door was a door, not a jar.] After school, I guess I would help her prep for classes or clean up the classroom, and one day she had me stapling something or other. I don’t remember any of that, but I remember when I stuck my little left index finger in the way of the stapler and stapled it good and hard. I was a selective mute when I was little — it is a real thing! — so I wasn’t, you know, big into talking. So I didn’t cry out or anything, I just walked over to Mrs. Flood and whispered that I had to go home. I must’ve been pale and a little sick-looking, because she asked if I was okay, and I lied and said yes and then left the school and walked to the corner and sat down on the curb and oh god there was a staple through my finger. This girl who was a few grades older than me was riding her bike and saw me and the staple and said, You’re going to have to pull that out, you know. And then she rode away. And then I pulled it out and I felt all pukey but I didn’t puke, I just walked down Radford Drive home to Barrett Crescent (which Google maps tells me is a 7 minute walk but my 6-year-old legs probably meant it was a little bit of a longer walk) and never told a soul.

I cut myself on a staple yesterday. Told a whole bunch of people.


Dracula: A Poem

I have a lovely sister, but she is not so much (okay, not at all) into the supernatural shows that I spend quite a great deal of time writing about, thinking about, tweeting about, etc. If, for instance, I mention how Love You to Death is ‘just finishing up and about to go to print’ (true story!), she’ll ask, Is that the VD one? And then I have to say TVD, not VD. (Since who wants to be known as a person who writes book after loving book about venereal disease? Not me.)

Vampires are not her scene.

So, imagine my delight when I came across this poem that my sister wrote in grade school. I proudly present it here (with permission); I have honored the punctuation of the original.

Please enjoy . . .


In this gray and dismal, stonemade haven

The only noises are from a raven,

Until those murky, midnight church bells ring,

And a horrid rasping, unearthly thing,

Begins to move its gnawing, blood hungry fangs.

His ice-white hand from the coffin it hangs

For now the “lid” of his bed is ajar,

His moans of hunger can be heard from afar.,

He quietly lingers out of his bed,

His eyes are like pools of fire, bright red.

He evilly glides over to the door,

With a sly grin he leaves to do a “chore”.,

As he wanders through the deserted street,

He spies a sleeping girl who looks quite sweet.,

As he approaches this blood-filled beauty,

He sinks his white teeth into the cutie.,

He drinks and drools until he is content,

And leaves the room without feeling resent,

His hunger for blood is finally fullfilled,

Back to his castle, for he has killed.