Hunting Blackbirds

Protected: Hunting Blackbirds: Chapter 15 (Patron Only)

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Resolutions and My Mother’s Bike

For 2016, I am hoping to spend more of my time writing. I am particularly interested in working on and even finishing some various fiction projects.  I want to write more stories, both short and long, produce more blogposts, and generally get in the habit of writing a lot every day. Writing is like a muscle, it needs exercise.

Among these projects are:

1. Hunting Blackbirds: the first book in a series set in a world where people are divided into three categories and which one you belong to determines how human you are. It explores issues of racism, ableism, sexism and oppression. Total written: 46, 382

  1. The Tsarina and the Wizard: a retelling of a Slavic/Ukrainian myth about a beautiful Tsarina imprisoned by a heartless wizard. Explores queer themes, and gender bends rolls. Total Written: 687
  2. Cassandra Prophetess of Troy: a retelling of the story of Cassandra that plays with the idea of what prophecy is and what it means not to be believed.
  3. Beauty and the Beast: What if beauty was the beast? And what if there is more to the story than we really know.
  4. Book 2 of Hunting Blackbirds: Where I explore what happens after the hunt.

One of the best gifts I received this Christmas is from my sister. It is a writing prompt book make up of 642 things to write about. I plan on working my way through the book this year, working on at least one prompt a day. Some of them probably won’t generate much, some might produce stories, but some might end up as blog posts. To that effect I start with my first one, written before midnight, because why put off something good.

Write about something that was stolen:

I went to a high school that was about one and a half km from home. Deemed close enough to walk, and it was. I would walk to school every morning and walk back in the evening. Sometimes, if it was raining, or particularly bad weather, or I was running late, my parents would give me a ride to school. I didn’t particularly like walking, especially as my book bag got heavier and heavier. My joints would ache all the time, and whenever I brought it up the answer was always the same. I was out of shape I needed to lose weight. Except even when I was going to the gym regularly, I still found I had the same problem. Back problems ran in my family, so I didn’t understand why it was so impossible that there was something really wrong with mine.

Finally I came up with a solution that would work for me. My mother had an old Raleigh bike that she had had for I think something like a decade. It had come with us from Saskatoon. They had gotten me a great bike for my birthday, but were worried about it getting stolen, so they told me to take the old bike. I loved that thing. It spelled freedom for me in so many ways. Because I could rest my backpack on the seat, my back didn’t hurt as much. Moreover, because I could ride much faster than I could walk, it gave me more time to myself. I could take the long way home and have a few moments when I didn’t have to face anyone else.

I didn’t have to meet expectations, I didn’t have to perform, I could just be me alone, riding my bike. I don’t know how many stories and fantasies I played out in my mind during those rides. The benefit of the bike was so great, that even when I walked with friends, I would still bring the bike with me.

While at school, I would lock up the bike next to the cafeteria door. The lock I had wasn’t great. Sometimes it would come undone for no reason, even when I was sure I had locked it. But still, I was lucky. Even when it unlocked, it was ok. I would lock the bike next to the cafeteria, except of rare occasions when something kept me from it. A cluster of wasps that made it impossible for me to lock it there, or perhaps too many other students were there with their bikes. When that happened, the only chain-link that would work for a lock was closer to the street.

It was on one of these occasions that my freedom was stolen from me. The lock had come undone and someone took advantage of the opportunity. My beautiful red and white bike, my mother’s Raleigh, was stolen. And I was devastated.

Now years later, I don’t have a bike. I can’t ride the same way I used to. The damage to my hip is extensive enough that I would need a custom bike to make sure I didn’t injure myself. Now more than ever though, I miss that mobility. I find it harder to move more and more. The aches in my joints, not as bad as when I had my real problem, are still becoming more pronounced. I should say something to my doctors, but I’m afraid, because this time I know I’m fat. But what can I do? I go swimming twice a week as much as I can. I even have a swim buddy to stay accountable. My energy levels are so depleted between the depression, the constant anxiety over money, the increase in pain over the last several months.

I’ve started using the motorized carts at the stores. I feel guilty every time I do. I feel like I am failing somehow, like it is the ultimate proof that I’m a lazy fat-ass. But I do it, because the alternative is that I come home so depleted, that my whole day is eaten up by one errand. I can’t afford that.

I wish sometimes that I could have one of those scooters at home. Then I could spend more time, exploring my neighbourhood. Maybe it would be easier to take the dogs outside more regularly. Explore the city a bit more. I can’t afford it though, and I’m scared to ask my doctor about it, because I don’t want to hear again about how all my problems are just caused by my weight. And so, sometimes I dream of my mother’s bike.

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