The stories in this
unique collection are by new and established writers who took part in the
Bridge House Short Story Competition.
The call was for stories about events happening on the same day as those dates we all remember: the day President Kennedy was shot, the day Princess Diana died, the day of the London bombings …
The cover itself is a puzzle. Can the reader match the dates to the fragmented headlines?
An aunt dies the same day as John Lennon. Smoke rises at the Vatican as lovers are reconciled – or not. A baby is born as the second plane ploughs into the twin towers.
Both are also writers. Gill lectures in Creative Writing at the University of Salford.
Bridge House aims to support new writing.
Cryptodome
My sister started smoking at the end of March. Openlysmoking, that is; she’d been charming cigarettes off theboys since she shrugged on her first bra at the age of twelve. My mother and I watched her from the kitchenwindow while we washed the dinner dishes. Louette stood
under the streetlight with her kitten heels spiking snowand her thin leather jacket left undone. The smoke rolledoff her and plumed to the moon. Her hand rose lazily to her mouth and the red ember flashed like a hazard light,her hand drifted down and the sparks scattered from her
fingers. That hand would still be warm when I passed herthe dish towel later, and I would see her footprints in thesnow the next morning, melted there amongst the fallenash and frozen hard by the night’s ice.
“Look at her,” my mother said, “smouldering awaylike she knows what it’s all about. Just like me at the sameand would you look at how that turned out. Christ.
Look at her.”
You looked at her, you stared openly in the street or themall or the school cafeteria, for you could not take youreyes off Louette. She’d flow into your awareness with herhips rolling and eyes arcing and dark hair glowing redwhere it caught the light. Her mouth would slowly curl intoa smile, and you’d feel the air sucked out of your lungs.She’d pool into the middle of the room and the heat would ur eyes with her. Breathless, restless, waiting forsomething to happen, you’d look at her. Her voice came out
deep and smoky and you’d swear you were hearing someprofound secret, even if she’d only stopped to ask the time.“Don’t you start up like her,” my mom said with her
hands shoved deep in scalding dish water, “you’re supposed to be the smart one. You still going to do thatvolcano?”
I nodded. The science fair was in June and the topcontestant would go to the provincial finals in Vancouver.planned to set up a colour wheel and talk about lightspectrums; I’d already had the discs cut out and painted,and spun the patterns to a blinding white in front of mymore easily impressed friends. Then the little earthquakesrattled through Washington state, shaking up the AmericansThe smoke spewed straight up in adelicate stream and my science teacher passed me a bookon Pompeii. He said there could be an eruption, a realcatastrophic event right here in our lifetime.
“Topical, this volcano,” he said, “a real topical topic,Marie.” His eyes glinted green as he leaned towards me,and I caught the fresh smell of his aftershave. My faceburned red. Mr Robson was the youngest and mostpopular teacher in school, and he was good with words. Ipracticed all my best one liners for him in private,mouthing them to the mirror while the bathwater ran.“Mr Robson’s hot,” said Louette, her eyes half liddedand her hand twisting hair, “don’t you think so, Marie?Too old for you, though.” She laughed and reached for hercigarettes.
Smoking wasn’t the only thing Louette had started.My mother would tell us to go to bed at a decent hour,then half kiss half swat us befre leaving for her shift atthe all night truck stop. The door would slam behind her.cigarettes.Smoking wasn’t the only thing Louette had started.
My mother would tell us to go to bed at a decent hour,then half kiss half swat us before leaving for her shift atthe all night truck stop. The door would slam behind her.
April 30th. The United States Geological Survey reportsthat one side of the mountain is bulging. This is fromthe pressure of the magma building inside. Two hundredand seventy feet of rock shifted now, and more pushed outevery day.
May came and Louette’s detainment lifted. Stan
showed up the door with a big loose grin and his car keys eyes widened a little, and I thought she’d probably noticed
this very same thing.
April 30th. The United States Geological Survey reports
that one side of the mountain is bulging. This is from
the pressure of the magma building inside. Two hundred
and seventy feet of rock shifted now, and more pushed out
every day.
May came and Louette’s detainment lifted. Stan
showed up the door with a big loose grin and his car keys18
eyes widened a little, and I thought she’d probably noticed
this very same thing.
April 30th. The United States Geological Survey reports
that one side of the mountain is bulging. This is from
the pressure of the magma building inside. Two hundred
and seventy feet of rock shifted now, and more pushed out
every day.
May came and Louette’s detainment lifted. Stan
showed up the door with a big loose grin and his car keys jangling, telling us how pretty the lake looked with sun onthe water. Louette told him she was studying. I watched
his face change shape, the muscles underneath his skin
shifting and setting to stoic silence.“Later, maybe?” she whispered, and his face softened.
I was woken again in the early hours by the bedroom
door creaking open. It was too warm now for the hockey jacket, but Louette’s skin glowed white where she’d bared
it. She sat quietly on the edge of her bed and I turned
towards her. The usual smoky vapour drifted from her buts omething had changed; she smelled of some other thingboth sweet and sharp. I thought of leaves unfurling and jacket, but Louette’s skin glowed white where she’d baredit. She sat quietly on the edge of her bed and I turned
towards her. The usual smoky vapour drifted from her butsomething had changed; she smelled of some other thingboth sweet and sharp. Isensed the colour green
twisting through the dark and winding tight around myguts.
"Go back to sleep,” Louette whispered, sitting perfectly
still, “you’re dreaming this.”
May 7th. The eruptions have started again. They are
small. You can’t see the magma boiling away underneath
the lid of solid rock. This is called a cryptodome. Crypto
means hidden.
Mount St Helens was in the news regularly now. It had
become a familiar face, and it showed up in the comic
May 7th. The eruptions have started again. They are
small. You can’t see the magma boiling away underneaththe lid of solid rock. This is called a cryptodome. Cryptomeans hidden.Mount St Helens was in the news regularly now. It had
become a familiar face, and it showed up in the comicstrips smiling and blowing puffy clouds into blue sky. Thetourists ate hot dogs and pointed their cameras at the ash. plume, the cabin owners snuck into the danger zone to pileporch chairs and log bed frames into the backs of their
pickup trucks. The geologists spoke to reporters about rateof intrusion and resulting instability while the volcanologiststhrust dark and jagged seismic graphs at the
newspapers
.“Don’t be fooled,” they said. “The entire north face
could slide, and if that happens we’ll have a full scale
catastrophe on our hands.”
Louette seemed to sleepwalk through those days, slow
and barely there, like some of her fire had gone out. Shemumbled and drifted around the place, half dressed andhalf awake and always with a cigarette dangling from herfingers. It smouldered and dropped ash on the carpet, butshe seemed to need the weight of it there in her hand.
Night would come and somehing would spark in her eyes,and I got used to the empty bed on her side of the room.
Stan dropped by on the Friday before it happened. I
was home alone. Louette had said she wold be late as she
wanted to finish off something at school.
“Where is she?” Stan asked. He stood in the kitchen
doorway with his arms hanging empty and his chest
caving inwards, but with his face oddly swollen. I couldfeel that awful tightness on my own face when I answered.“With Mr Robson,” I said, as if it were nothing. I lookedat Stan and he looked at me, and the rage passed between usboth. I heard the Camaro throwgravel as it spun away and I
had to sit down for the shaking in my knees.
Saturday was quiet. Mount St Helens had ceased allvisible activiY.and been taken off the news, the touristshad gone home and the cabin owners were officially
allowed to collect their belongings. Louette driftedthrough the rooms, picking up things and putting themdown again.
“Stan?” she said when I asked. “No, I never saw Stan.
I should call him, I guess.” She looked at the phone and
picked up her cigarettes instead.
May 18th was Mother’s Day. Louette and I had volunteered
at the Strawberry Brunch held in the school
cafeteria every year. Mr Robson was supervising the kids
and kitchen workers. Our mother slipped in at seven just as she always did after a night shift, and told us she’d bealong after a few hours of sleep.
By twenty minutes past eight, I was setting places on the pink-clothed cafeteria tables and Louette was slicingstrawberries into a bowl. Mr Robson hummed as PROpped test-tubes of coloured water and carnations at each table, and neither he nor Louette looked at oneanother. The kitchen workers bustled back and forth with baking powder biscuits and bowls of whipped cream, andthe student volunteers laughed and gossiped.At eight thirty there was a displacement of air. Nothingmore than that, no explosion or sonic boom or blast of
Stan stood in the cafeteria doorway with shotgunhanging from his hands. His eyes bulged and glared in hisswollen face, like they were about to pop from someincredible force within, and he was panting. The noise ofthis echoed through the room, bouncing off twelve graderwith her hands clutched to her throat to hockey captaincaught mid-cower to kitchen worker staring over her potof steaming water. Louette had half risen from her seatwith her hands stained red from strawberries, but Stan was
not looking at her. He raised the gun.Mr Robson’s hands shook and the carnations trembled
in their crimson water. I saw how the colour had seepedinto their delicate folds, tracing the red there like veins, and I swallowed hard.
“It was nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing. It meant
nothing to me.”
Several things happened all at once then. Stan movedfaster than I would have ever thought possible, breakingfrom doorway and towards Mr Robson with steps likestumbling boulders, the shotgun wedged to his shoulder.“No no no” said someone and “please” said another andthere was the gurgling cough of the hockey captainretching. The kitchen worker dropped her pot of hot water
and it splashed and steamed and Mr Robson cried out. Stanmoved fast but Louette moved faster, lifting the bowl ofstrawberries high and throwing it full force into Stan’s face.Eight thirty two. I remember how my eyes driftedfrom bleeding carnations to blank dinner plates tonumbered clock face, instinctively thinking to record thetime. I watched the second hand tremble and freeze and
take an eon to click forward.Stan wheeled back and smacked against the wall, sliding
down it almost gracefully. The bowl bounced besidehim and the mashed berries and red juice dripped from hisface, spreading across cafeteria floor. His face crumpledand collapsed and he began to weep. The shotgun hungbalanced across his skewed knees for a moment before it
clattered to the tiles. Someone moaned, then there was
absolute silence.Louette stood facing Stan with her hair come undone
and her sweater pulled off one shoulder. We looked at her,
we stared until her image wavered and blurred and burnt
itself into our eyes. Louette stood still while the air around
her roiled and sparked, and we could not take our eyes off
her.
“The ring,” someone said. “She’s not wearing his
ring.”retching. The kitchen worker dropped her pot of hot water
and it splashed and steamed and Mr Robson cried out. Stan
moved fast but Louette moved faster, lifting the bowl of
strawberries high and throwing it full force into Stan’s face.
Eight thirty two. I remember how my eyes drifted
from bleeding carnations to blank dinner plates to
numbered clock face, instinctively thinking to record the
time. I watched the second hand tremble and freeze and
take an eon to click forward.
Stan wheeled back and smacked against the wall, sliding
down it almost gracefully. The bowl bounced beside
him and the mashed berries and red juice dripped from his
face, spreading across cafeteria floor. His face crumpled
and collapsed and he began to weep. The shotgun hung
balanced across his skewed knees for a moment before it
clattered to the tiles. Someone moaned, then there was
absolute silence.
Louette stood facing Stan with her hair come undone
and her sweater pulled off one shoulder. We looked at her,
we stared until her image wavered and blurred and burnt
itself into our eyes. Louette stood still while the air around
her roiled and sparked, and we could not take our eyes off
her.
“The ring,” someone said. “She’s not wearing hisring.”
My eyes slid from Louette’s bare finger to the glint of
gold lying next to strawberry stained knife, and my hand
went out before I could stop it. The ring, his ring; the
whisper went around the room like a wave and I knew I’d
not been seen.
“Pathetic,” said Louette then. I saw how her eyes
swerved to Mr Robson and stayed there, I saw how Mr
Robson looked away. Louette laughed, short and sharp
and caustic as ground glass. She turned on her heel and
walked out.
I found her outside dragging deep on a cigarette.
“I should quit this shit,” she said, “I don’t even like the TASTE"
We missed the eruption of St Helen’s that day. It is allthere in the records, however, with times and miles andother measurements carefully noted. At eight thirty twoa.m., a five point one earthquake sheared off the side ofthe mountain and sent it hurtling down river valley at onehundred and fifty five miles per hour. The resultinglandslide displaced the contents of an entire lake, splashing
its water six hundred feet up and hillside and knockingdown the surrounding forest. The magma boiling insidethe cryptodome for so long found itself exposed to the air,and it reacted instantly, exploding massive amounts ofrock debris, volcanic gas, ash and pumice. The landslidewas quick, but the pyroclastic flow was quicker; itovertook the slide at speeds of six hundred and eighty
miles per hour and even broke the sound barrier. It aporised everything in an eight mile radius and its
superheated clouds blasted the foliage off trees manymiles beyond that. Fifty seven people were killed: most ofthem asphyxiated but others burnt or buried. It is all therein the records, the truth of the matter noted in numbers.
We missedthe eruption, but they had started showing the footage on the television by the time we got homefrom the police station. The smoke billowed a dirty grayand I handed Louette her ring. Her fist closed around it butshe did not put it back onto her finger. We watched th eash spew and Louette let me hold her hand. I noted that it eemed small and cold in mine.
The eruption sent an ash column twelve miles up andthe air currents swirled it down again, covering thousandsof miles in a caustic blanket and blacking out the noondaysun. The mudslides grated across bridges and the acid rainwashed the evergreen off the state signs. The ash flewacross the border and we watched our clear blue skydarken by degrees. There was a fine gray dust coveringthe tops of the cars by the next morning. No one went toschool, even though it was a Monday.The police let Stan go after a few days of questioning.
His father paid the fines and was given back his gun. Stanwas expelled from school and forbidden from graduatingthat year. None of us saw him for weeks and the rumoursswirled and spread, dirtying the mouth with their taste.Some of that gossip grazed Louette, but she brushed it off.My volcano journal lay unopened and I stopped goingscience class. A garbage bag showed up on ourdoorstep the week before the science fair, with a noteattached. I took the paper-mache volcano out of the blackplastic and left the unread note in its place.
I was not surprised to see the science fair hall steamingwith a dozen homemade volcanoes, all in various states offrothy eruption. The kid with the colour wheel spun hisplates to white while the room filled with the bitter stenchof vinegar. The judge pinned a blue ribbon to his stall and was not surprised by this either.
carried no blame for what happened. No one recalled Mr
Robson’s words but everyone remembered the strawberries
bursting from bowl, and how Louette had stood so
strong and resolute afterwards. A relationship outgrown,
they said, an engagement ring handed back and a young
man left broken hearted. It was only natural, for Louette
was beautiful. And working surprisingly hard at her
studies these days. Hadn’t she been getting extra help with
her biology before the volcano blew? The younger girls
began showing up to school with dishevelled hair and
their sweaters hanging off their shoulders. Louette brushed
that off too and circled job vacancies at the back of the
city newspapers.
Mount St Helens erupted a few more times and the
news circled the globe. The ash fell as far away as
Oklahoma and we all got used to the taste of it at the back
of our throats. It snowed black that winter and Stan drove
to the lake with his father’s shotgun into the passenger
seat of his Camaro. Mr Robson’s skill with words was
recalled, and he spoke on behalf of school at the funeral.
He didn’t mention the volcano, he talked about flowers in
the field instead. I saw the crimson veins of those
carnations and had to choke back the bile. Louette called
to say she’d seen the snow on the news and was it really
as black as that? She was working as a medical receptionist
in wealthier part of Vancouver by then, and dating a
doctor.
My sister married a cardiologist and he made her quitsmoking when she turned forty. Mount St Helens stillvents steam and ash once in a while, and Louette phonesme every time. “Turn on the TV,” she’ll say, “you don’twant to miss it.”I can hear the restlessness in her voice, that sense ofbreathy excitementThe ash fell down and got swept up, and eventuallydispersed to farther places. It was decided that Louette
“Turn on the TV,” she’ll say, “you don’t
want to miss it.”
I can hear the restlessness in her voice, that sense of
breathy excitement that still draws people to her. I know how her hands will hum with heat while her fingers flutterand tap, searching for a long ago cigarette to light andsuck to red hot ember. My sister talks of her prettychildren while I tell her about my research, and we nevermention the mornings we wake with the taste of ash stillin our mouths.
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