Impromptu: An Anthology

By Scarborough Scribblers, Margaret Abela, Brenda Dow and 11 more

Join the Scarborough Scribblers as they race against time to bring you fifteen of their best impromptu short stories and poems, all inspired by writing prompts and written against the clock in the famous Gravel Bar.

When you take away time and add pressure, anything can happen: an arachnid space-disaster, a streetcar adventure, lessons in overlord succession, an equine meteorological fantasy, tales of love and espionage, and more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scarborough Scribblers
• Release date: May 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370275274

Scarborough Scribblers

We are a writers group that meets at Albert Campbell Branch of the Toronto Public Library. The group started out in late 2014, with just 3 members. They were strangers sitting quietly around a meeting room table, taking turns sharing writing and offering critique. Over time, membership grew and the strangers became a writing family. Soon,meetings became loud and boisterous events filled with laughter. The writers found power in their unique creative voices and became the Scarborough Scribblers. Then, in 2016, they published their first anthology, Library Reflections. Which brings us here, today.

Book preview

Introduction

Saul Riley Triaou

In his introduction to the 2016 book Library Reflections: An Anthology, my cousin Chai wrote that …the Scribblers regularly honed their writing and storytelling skills by practicing timed writing exercises from written or verbal word prompts. There’s nothing like a stopwatch to create a short term pressure cooker of inspiration and hilarious writing. Who knew deadlines could be fun?

I was eager to see this phenomenon for myself, and I recently had the chance. While on a layover on my way to New York, I visited a Scarborough Scribblers meeting. When I entered their subterranean lair, a room they’ve affectionately named the Gravel Bar, thirteen writers were gathered around a polished mahogany table.

After the group’s facilitator greeted me and made the introductions, I presented a gift to the Scribblers. It was painstakingly chosen with the help of my cousin, Chai. Gently, I lifted the Gustav Becker anniversary clock from my leather bag. Its sparkling crystal dome reflected the bright ceiling lights, and the rotary pendulum spun back and forth hypnotically.

The Scribblers placed the clock in the middle of the table. To my relief, they oohed and aahed over the antique. I could tell they preferred this old-fashioned timepiece to their electronic stopwatch. They would now be able to time their prompt writing in style.

Feeling a rush of excitement, I took my place in one of the few remaining seats. Around me, the Scribblers were unpacking pens, pencils, notebooks, and paper. One of the writers, a woman with short blonde hair, appeared to have no writing tools at all, but I later discovered that she had a netbook on her lap. As for me, I had purchased a leather-bound notebook just for this occasion and brought along the gold fountain pen that had once belonged to my great-grandfather. I retrieved both from my bag and faced front, pen at the ready.

Seconds ticked away before I noticed a Cross and Olive finger-bowl being passed around the table. Each Scribbler plucked out a scrap of parchment paper. When my turn came, I held the glass bowl reverently. Delicately, I reached in and picked one particular paper that seemed to call to me. My heart pounded as my eyes raced over the black-inked words, penned in fine calligraphy. It was one of the legendary writing prompts.

When the bowl had gone all around the table, I reached for the beautiful clock. With gentle fingers, I pulled a golden lever and the countdown began. Ten… nine… eight… The rotary pendulum quietly ticked away the seconds. I was mesmerized by the slow, steady whirl of its polished brass mechanism. Swinging to and fro, it flashed reflections of the writers’ faces around the table. Three… two…one!

Everyone began to write at once. The clicking clock was barely audible over the sound of ballpoint pens scratching against paper. My gold fountain pen joined in the mix. I was flooded with magic: image after image, story after story, emotion after emotion. I raced to record my ideas, fascinated to see my piece come alive.

Far too soon, the stately clock chimed. The melodic signal meant that our writing time was up and I dropped my pen, following the Scribblers’ lead. The room fairly buzzed with anticipation, each writer eager to hear the tales so magically woven in so short a time.

Saul Riley Triaou

A Scarborough Scribblers fan

Margaret Abela

Margaret Abela was born in England and worked in London and Geneva, Switzerland, before settling in Scarborough, Ontario, where she graduated from York University and raised a family. She has developed workplace health and safety educational programs and currently enjoys writing short stories, poems, and creative non fiction, some of which have been published. In 2007, she gained first place in the Scene of the Crime short story contest.

In Defence of Eden

Margaret Abela

Dana sat in the shadows, the flaming logs in the fireplace projecting a kaleidoscopic pattern across the walls. There was an island of light where Nikolai sat, the lamp beside his armchair illuminating him as he read. Even when he was relaxed, she could see the noble angle of his head that spoke of his White Russian lineage. His eyebrows were fiercely black, yet silky. She longed to trace them with her fingers so that he would raise his eyes and look into hers. She wanted to feast on all the emotions that swirled through those dark depths; the mischievous sparkle when he teased her, their luminosity as he listened to Rachmaninoff, their intensity as he read poetry aloud, and the spreading black velvet that revealed his desire for her before he spoke the words.

After 20 years of marriage, she was glad that he could still have this unsettling effect on her. Perhaps that was why, despite her success in the art world, she had never succeeded in painting a portrait of him. It was difficult for her to dissociate from the subject, to maintain her concentration.

They had met in Chicago. He was the son of a Russian émigré. She was born in Hungary and came with her parents, as a small child, to settle in the city. Although Nikolai was five years younger than her, Dana had been attracted by the mature seriousness and intensity of his nature. He, in turn, was captivated by her exuberant bohemianism and the bold statement of her art which, he said, set her apart from other women. They were like two sides of the same coin. The oneness they achieved in their marriage gave their relationship a quality that was difficult for outsiders to comprehend. Envy of the rarity of their love, she felt, underlay the comments of some who implied that rather than being a love of rare beauty, theirs was an unhealthy relationship.

Dana rose, restraining her impulse to embrace him. She sometimes wondered if he found her too demanding. She touched his shoulder. Would you like your coffee now?

Nikolai put aside his book and sat beside her on the couch, adding a little vodka to his brew. Remember last week I was telling you about the Forbes Mansion being on the market, he said, you know, that big place on the lake? Actually, it was built by a protégé of Frank Lloyd Wright, an amazing piece of architecture.

Yes, I guess another plus is that it backs onto a conservation area. Though, I must say, I don’t really care for that type of open design. She knew how vulnerable she would feel behind walls of glass that allowed passersby entry to her private world. However, I suppose it does appeal to a lot of people.

The good news is, Dana, it appeals to one of my clients and he has instructed me to put in an offer.

Fantastic. But I’m really surprised. I thought the asking price was ridiculous. He must be saturated in money.

A retired Wall Street broker, so he’s not short of cash. It’s in the bag.

She wondered how he had contained his excitement. He must have been dying to tell her, though he’d had his nose in a book all evening. That commission would make it a record year financially. Another year like this one and they would be able to realize their dream.

She knew a love of art was as much at the centre of Nikolai’s life as it was hers. Instead of going to the gym in the morning like most of the other men at the office, he would head to the living room and settle in front of the piano—a Beethoven sonata, a Bach concerto. Some mornings it was blues and jazz, as if Fats Waller and Herbie Hancock had moved in. He wrote poetry too. But to make a living he sold real estate. She tried to help, giving art and interior design advice to some of his clients. When Nikolai eventually came to leave the real estate business it would be to build a home and studio in the country, a place where they could devote their lives entirely to their artistic interests. She would have more time for her painting, and they would have more time for each other. Now she was excited by the prospect that it might happen sooner than they had anticipated.

The next morning, Dana decided to run a few errands before going to her studio. She stopped to pick up books at the library, and it was nearly lunchtime when she got to the supermarket. She grabbed milk and bread and hurried to the check out. Unfortunately, she picked the wrong line. They were held up while someone was conducting a price check.

There were two women ahead of her in line. One reached forward to tap the shoulder of the other. Jean? I didn’t recognize you with the new hair style.

I’m not sure if I like what they’ve done to my hair, Amanda. I tried out that new hair salon, you know, the one on 59th Street.

Well, I think it looks lovely. I’ll have to stop by there sometime. How are the kids?

The kids are doing well. They’re both in school now.

I can’t believe it, said Amanda. How the years fly by. And how’s David?

Well, he’s had a promotion. He’s taken over as office manager, said Jean.

The usual stuff, thought Dana. Boring, boring, boring. I wish this line would move.

"And how about you, Amanda, still going out with that married guy?