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About the Author

Details
Publisher	Writers Exchange E-Publishing
Author	Rita Toews and Alex Domokos
Recommended Minimum Age	Suitable for all ages
ISBN Number	1876962593
Price:	$4.95

Excerpts (Read a sample or view an illustration):

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A DAY IN BEDLAM The security alarm shrieks; my emergency contact is out of cellular range; the dog has retreated into a corner to howl his pathetic protest, and the house reeks of burned garlic. As well, most of my body parts feel as though they've gone through a blender. To add to the madness, the carpets are wet, and condensation has misted the windows. This day, one that had started with so much promise, has become a nightmare. I should have felt some foreshadowing, some sign, but no, the day had begun innocently enough. I had had no premonition... Out of habit I awake at 6:30 a.m., but then remember that it is my day off. The task of delivering the children to school will fall on my husband today. It's -20 outside, but I'm warm and cosy in my bed. Like a squirrel, I burrow deeper under the blankets to enjoy the luxury of several more hours of sleep. Digger, my canine foot-warmer, hops up on the bed and positions himself expertly at my feet. Life is good. At 9:00 o'clock, I emerge from hibernation. Oh, ugh! Now I remember. I've scheduled the carpet cleaners to come today. I hate the smell of wet carpets, and the disruption of moved furniture. I turn my attention to more positive thoughts. It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and the temperature outside has shot up dramatically. In protected places the snow has begun to soften. Tiny drops of water cling to the eaves and hang like jewels from the top of the fence. "Does life get any better than this, Digger?" I enquire of the dog. With tongue lolling, he seems to smile back. At 11:00 the phone rings, and a flat, disinterested, I've-done-this-so-many-times-before voice informs me that the long-awaited family photo Christmas cards are ready for pick-up. "Be here before 5:00 if you want them today," she states. Finally! Several weeks ago the family agonised over the proofs of a photo studio sitting. We were unable to reach a consensus as to which pose would become our Christmas card. In the end, much to the chagrin of the two kids, my husband exercised his option of an extra vote, and made the decision on our collective behalf. Now, at last, the cards are ready for claiming! The day progresses leisurely. A few chatty phone calls. I indulge myself and curl up with the dog and a book. The fireplace crackles; all is silent and at peace. Oh, so deceptive. Reality check. The carpet cleaners arrive and begin the cleaning process. Phew, what an unpleasant smell! They finish the upstairs rooms and work their way down the stairs to the ceramic tile at the entry. Meanwhile, I decide to pre-cook chicken portions for supper; pan of oil on the heat; garlic into the oil to fry chicken - Wham!! An ear piercing, glass shattering, one million megawatts wail splits the air. For an instant, the cleaners, dog and myself are motionless - a tableau. The security alarm has been triggered, although it isn't turned on! My brain goes into fast forward. "30 seconds to report false alarm! Police will come! Phone monitoring company! Turn siren off! Where's the phone! Can't hear!" Frantic fingers fly over the non-responsive control panel. The carpet cleaners stand riveted, too scared to move. I can't use the phone downstairs to report a false alarm because the klaxon is right under the telephone table, and it continues to scream. I have to use the phone upstairs. I cross the hallway to the bottom of the stairs at a run, and WHAP! I'm in a crumpled heap on the tile floor with only one shoe on; the other skitters across the floor and makes a quick exit from the scene into the living room. A tiny, devious stream of water that escaped from the cleaners' machine onto the tile has been lying in wait for this very moment. Its nefarious deed is accomplished in a second, but the repercussions will continue for weeks. I manage to navigate the water-soaked stairs with the grace of a three-legged dog on my twisted ankle. I still have one shoe on. In the bedroom I blabber breathless gibberish into the phone to the monitoring company, believing myself to be totally coherent. A calm voice, long accustomed to handling crisis calls, begins the process of ascertaining my problem with only minimal assistance from me. "A false alarm, a false alarm," I gasp, "but the control panel won't shut off. Don't send the police!" I beg. She manages to calm me down and sort out my message. I'm then assured that yes, she does understand, and yes, something is definitely wrong with the system if the siren won't shut off. She instructs me to call the company who sold the system to us. Click, dial tone. The brain-numbing wail continues downstairs as I dial the security company phone number. No one is in the office. A machine explains, "in an emergency please dial . . . "I follow the instructions and explain my problem to the voice at the other end of the line. "What's the control panel doing now?" I'm asked. Well, to answer that is a problem; the panel is downstairs, and I'm upstairs. Furthermore, several areas of my body now let me know that they also came in contact with the ceramic tile floor. A lot more than my ankle seems to have been wrenched in the fall. To examine the panel, I make my way down the wet stairs at a considerably slower speed than when I went up. The carpet cleaners are still in the middle of the family room, and look somewhat embarrassed; an unpleasant vapour hangs in the air; and the dog has retreated into a corner with his head thrown back. He howls a discordant lament to whoever can hear him above the din. The control panel flashes like a circus carousel, emitting little incomprehensible burps and blips. Grabbing the kitchen extension, I am about to describe the control panel, when, from the corner of my eye, I see smoke spiralling from the forgotten pan of oil on the stove. Suddenly I realise the aroma I smell is not carpet-cleaning fluid at all. It's burnt garlic. "Get the stove! Shut off the stove!" I scream to whoever is nearest at hand. One of the cleaners rushes to comply. At the other end of the phone the representative explains how to disconnect the battery pack (which is in the basement) from the alarm. "It's very simple," she states. "All you need is a square-headed screwdriver. Oh, and phone me back when you get it off." I feel calmer now that I have a solution to the problem, and I hang up the phone. I shout the news to the carpet cleaners, and ask them if they have a "square" screwdriver. "No problem, lady," the younger one reassures me. "Hey, sit down, okay? You don't look too good." Inexplicably, before we can act, the wailing ceases . . . and all is quiet. Mouths gape, as we stare at each other in shock. We each feel compelled to state the obvious: "Its stopped." "Yah, its stopped." "Hey! Its stopped!" These inane comments are accompanied by nods and bobbing heads. I try to report this new development to the security company, but the phone is now dead. As dead as the security panel! With relief I notice that one of the carpet cleaners has a cellular clipped to his belt. "Sorry, lady," he informs me when I ask to borrow it, "the battery's dead." The thought flashes through my overtaxed brain that it makes an odd ornament on his belt, if it's dead. I tug my boots on, barely getting one over a rapidly swelling ankle, and limp next door to use the neighbours' phone. The neighbours have heard the siren and are standing on their porch, wondering if the van backed up to our garage door is indeed a carpet cleaning van. Perhaps thieves are in the process of loading our valuables on board. I do not feel very charitable at the moment, and wonder why they haven't bothered to call the police. My phone call to the security company results in a recorded message which informs me that the recipient of the call is currently out of range, but if I leave a message they'll get back to me. So much for the reassuring statement: "call me back when you get it disconnected." Well, things can't get any worse. Oh, yes, they can. I suddenly hear the wail of the siren from my house. It's back on! I hobble back to a house that is once again in a state of uproar. The carpet cleaners have had enough of the whole mess, and are in the process of gathering up their equipment to make their escape. "Oh, no, you don't." I spit at cleaner #1 as I grab his arm. "Where's your square screwdriver? You're disconnecting the battery downstairs before you leave." I'm definitely losing control. We go down to the basement and take one of the leads off the battery pack. Mercifully, the noise stops. Cleaner #2 feels it's important to assure me that I needn't worry about their bill - they'll leave it in the mailbox, and I can send them a cheque in the mail when I get a moment. They leave. The dog shuts up. Silence. I sag onto a stair beside the control panel. Slowly, cool moisture seeps into my jeans where I've made contact with the wet carpet. I don't have enough energy left to care. Then, unbelievably, inconceivably, I hear ominous tiny burps and beeps from the control panel. It slowly struggles to life. It's a live organism that refuses to die! Lights begin to flash as the blips gain volume and strength. It gives birth to an ear-shattering wail that once again fills the house. The dog loses bladder control on the clean carpet, then retreats to the safety of his corner. I try the phone - it's dead. Will this nightmare never cease?! In a frenzy, I lurch down the basement stairs and begin flipping fuse box switches. "Not this one, not this one. Nope. YES!" On the fourth try, the wail is cut short. I try the phone and am granted a miracle -- it works. The voice at the security company, which is so calm that it irritates me, assures me they will send someone out this evening. "Something might be wrong," she states. Might be wrong? What an understatement. "Something is wrong." I hiss through clenched teeth. I gain control of myself, and call central monitoring to tell them I've disabled the alarm system. They are to disregard any messages they have received over the past hour. "Please don't send the police." "Well, Mrs. Toews, the only message we've received from your system today is when it was turned off this morning at 7:15." That's when the family left the house. Yes, something is definitely wrong. I realise that if I leave now I'll be able to pick up the family Christmas cards before I collect my daughter from her piano lesson. I grab my coat and hobble to the car. The thought crosses my mind that I might not be able to get my boot off later. Is the ankle cracked, even broken? I struggle into the photo studio, and I am handed my photos in a neat box. One photo is drawn out for inspection. As I look at it, a mental alarm goes off. Nawww, you're just skittish, I tell myself. All I can really focus on are the aches in so many parts of my body. When I collect my daughter from her piano lesson, she immediately grabs the box of photos. "Oh, no, Mom!" she shrieks. "It's the wrong picture. You got the wrong picture developed. AAWK! Look at me! I look like a geek!" Weeks of waiting, and they've developed the wrong pose. Fifty-five Christmas cards of the worst possible pose of the entire photo shoot. I giggle maniacally as I carefully make the drive home. After all, there are still several hours left in this day that seems to have come straight out of Bedlam. So much can still go wrong. Previously published in "Western People"

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