Toronto Craft Alert

We’re really excited at Toronto Craft Alert about this new feature — CRAFT FICTION. We’ll be bringing you short stories and serialized pieces of creative writing that weave in crafty themes. Feel free to let us know what you think about this new feature, and get in touch if you have your own original work to contribute.

“Stitch and Bitch” by Toronto writer Mary B. Valencia is the inaugural work in our new series. This was written in the Haibun style, which interjects haiki poems into the narrative. Mary’s multi-layered technique combined with the story’s knitting theme makes it perfect reading for this blustery time of year. Enjoy!

Stitch and Bitch by Mary B. Valencia

It’s nearing Christmas time in South Wales and I snip paper snowflakes at the kitchen table, hoping for real flakes to soon fall like feathers.

“Very good, Susan,” Morwyn says. She clicks her metallic knitting needles and purls at an impressive rate without looking at her green cable hat-in-progress. She pushes back her dark hair and sips the red wine I’ve poured for her. There’s a Faye Dunaway gap between her wine-streaked teeth. Morwyn’s come round for our weekly stitch and bitch, a coveted evening of craft making and gossip about the lit students and tutors in our graduate program.

“It’s so relaxing,” I say.

Outside someone yells, “Sod off!” It vibrates in from the cold street. The final football match has just ended and the shave-headed hooligans kick cans along the sidewalk.

Morwyn’s brought the good wool from the Mumbles shop — silky fine — not like my big brown acrylic ball from Knitter’s World for £2.99. Words wind around like her angora wool on the needles, easy and smooth.

red onion sprouts green
in water-filled jam jar
flat’s first flora

When the doorbell rings, I straighten up and set my scissors down, expecting Bronwyn.

“Stay there luv,” Morwyn says. She jumps up, “I told Owen to stop by.” She calls from the narrow hall, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Al’right,” Owen says. His voice carries to the kitchen. His feet stomp wet prints on the carpet. “How about these?” He walks in with two fine bottles of red.

Owen drags a chair away from the table and sits down. His knees bend high and bony and his arms fall gangly while he sits on the low metal frame. He rubs and blows into his red hands.

“Al’right then,” he says. He uncorks the first bottle and fills our glasses to the very brim. I heat him up the left over pesto pasta and apologize that there isn’t more.

“It’s alright,” he laughs.

He digs into his trench coat pocket and opens what looks like a Galaxy chocolate bar and shaves sweet smelling hash into a rolling paper.

At the table I cut Celtic cross snowflakes and tape them to the window that’s cloudy wet from condensation. Morwyn blushes and takes big sips of wine. Owen rubs her hand and excuses himself to the loo.

“You don’t mind he’s here, do you?” Morwyn asks.
I shake my head. “Of course not.” But I do mind.

The toilet flushes and Owen returns quickly and sits quietly. He looks at me with a downturned smile, then he crosses his eyes. His head falls slowly to the side like he is stretching his neck.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Owen bends further like he is looking for something on the laminate pine floor but then his eyes roll back and his mouth falls open.

“Oh my God,” Morwyn screams. “Call an ambulance!” She drops her knitting and cradles Owen’s head. She cries and moans and presses his Plasticine face to her chest. It isn’t 9-1-1 here but 9-9-9 and I’m thankful I have Tesco phone credits left.

cigarette smoke
swirls over Shiraz
ashes in found seashell

“I’m fine,” Owen says. He squeezes his eyelids like he has a bad headache. He sits up, flattens his trench coat and taps his shoes on the floor.

“They’ve already sent the paramedics over,” I say.

“I’m sorted, I’m fine,” he laughs. He lips stick to his gums.

“Your lips are white, like my snowflakes.”

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. The cold porcelain numbs my thighs while I pee. In the rubbish, poking up under unused toilet tissues, is a plastic packet dusted with what looks like flour.

peeling skin
from red wine lips
to apply Merlot gloss

The doorbell rings, again.

I open the door to two stalky men in green slacks and matching polyester jumpers. Garbage collectors?

“Al’right luv, ambulance here,” the shorter one says.

“The patient’s conscious now,” I explain, “Do you still need to come in?”

“We sure do,” he says. He imitates a John Wayne twang.

“I’m Canadian,” I say, not understanding why at this moment, I insist on distinguishing myself from an American.

“Right luv,” he says. He grabs my chin like I’m a billy goat.

“Whose ‘ouse is it ‘en?” his partner asks.

“Mine.”

I follow closely behind to catch their expressions when they swing open the kitchen to knitting needles and paper snowflakes. Owen obliges and they take his vitals in the white ambulance parked up on the front curve. Morwyn lights a cigarette and follows them. I pick up Morwyn’s knitting from the floor. Over the sink I tug on the yarn, unwind it, row by row — loops appear and disappear. I unwind all the way, staring out to the cement garden wall. It’s just grey with a few cracks, no view, no sky, no garden, just flatness staring back.

:::::::::

Mary B. Valencia is a graduate of the Creative Writing program from the University of Wales, Swansea. Her story Blue is in the current issue of PRISM International. She lives in Toronto where she knits and works on her short fiction manuscript One Block from the Prison, Two Blocks from the Sea. She lives in Toronto, and would like to thank Nigel for introducing her to the Haibun style of short fiction.