ADDRESSES
Cynthia Flood • $0.99
Collected in FPQ Winter 2011
New wife and mother Julie is a woman struggling to find her place. Her dilemmas, while modest, feel harsh, and reflect the ways in which women were once denied control over their own bodies. Her first steps toward independence bring great pain—and not only to herself. With sparing, incisive prose, Cynthia Flood unravels what it meant to be a married woman in post-war era Vancouver, creating an evocative and even unsettling experience for the reader.
Praise for Addresses
“What a great story! Told in terse, restrained sentences, yet opening to a lush and radiant heart, Addresses captures the anguish of a marriage gone off the rails, and the moments of redemption that arrive from unexpected places. Flood’s use of language is uniquely her own–staccato, clean as a knife, and brilliant. Cynthia Flood has done it again.”
– Shaena Lambert, author of Radiance and The Falling Woman
“With a precision of language that startles and delights, Cynthia Flood offers glimpses of those moments in which the essence of an entire life is revealed.”
– Nancy Richler, author of Your Mouth Is Lovely
“Addresses–the abruptness of the title tells so much about this exquisitely drawn story by Cynthia Flood. ‘Tell the truth but tell it slant,’ Emily Dickinson advised, and that’s always been the approach Flood has preferred for her bone-china fictions, edging into them sideways. Once escorted into the story’s arrhythmic heart, we readers have no choice but to immerse ourselves in a world long gone but still very much with us, to emerge both shaken and stirred.”
– Dave Margoshes, author of Bix’s Trumpet & Other Stories
Preview
The right apartment. Meaning what?
For Julie, that Jeremy be in it.
He did the hunting. Often she came along, still happy though
sickish-dazed from The Pill.
Distinctive 1 BR suite even had a pantry. They moved in.
By then Julie could, just, see around him.
Also she knew she had never filled Jeremy’s vision.
Sort-of arguments began, about The Pill. After research that
took a lot of time away from his work, he decided on condoms and
foam.
In the distinctive building’s entry, ceramic tiles were octagons
in a complex black-and-white arrangement. There was stained glass
and no elevator. No laundry room. The brass door-plates and fir
floors were original.
“I checked.” Satisfied, Jeremy closed the pantry door to work
for hours so they could get ahead.
The paned windows stood tall, Julie not. They and the floors
gleamed (she made sure of that), yet the elegant life once lived
in these turn-of-the-century Vancouver rooms did not seem like
anything she could match.
Collected in
Other Stories from FPQ Winter 2011