Excerpt, 'Stories from the Home Front'
by Ken Leland

“If you assume that there is no hope, you guarantee that there will be no hope. If you assume that there is an instinct for freedom, that there are opportunities to change things, then there is a possibility that you can contribute to making a better world.”
― Noam Chomsky

‘Stories from the Home Front’ appears in Conclave, Spring 2016, published by Babylon Books, along with a number of fine short stories and poems by other writers. It is the author’s hope that the following excerpt will tweak the reader’s interest sufficiently to buy a copy of Conclave, or perhaps to suggest the local library consider buying the anthology.

Conclave, Spring 2016, published by Babylon Books.
https://www.amazon.ca/Conclave-Spring-2016-Writing-Change/dp/0692644652/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1456245692&sr=1-2&keywords=Conclave%2C+Spring%2C+2016

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An excerpt from
'Stories from the Home Front'
On a busy summer sidewalk, I see them strolling towards me, elbows touching. I recognize her, it is Linda and a young man I take to be her husband. It’s been four years since I left the north to study pharmacy at university. Though there is scant to show, I guess that Linda carries his child. As they approach, I stumble on smooth pavement, sidle from the path of city folk gathering for a midsummer’s holiday. My head pounds and I lean against a shop window frame, struck dumb, helpless before her.
Linda’s dress is modest, a print of tiny roses with a stiff, wide collar buttoned close at her throat, long sleeves ending in white cuffs, belt and purse of pale leather. Her dress stretches just below her knees to show bare legs and open-toed shoes. Curly brown hair frames her forehead and lovely eyes. Linda’s nose was always a little too large, but she is no less precious to me. High cheek bones and determined chin, all features arranged in a pleasing oval.
God help me, why did I ever leave her?
She is close now, only a few holiday makers are passing between us. Attention averted to her husband, she senses something, perhaps my astonished gaze, and begins to turn towards the display window. My heart stops when, with instant recognition, Linda’s smile is replaced with shock.
“John!”
She darts out her hand to touch me, but pulls back.
“What’s wrong?” her husband asks. He stops and turns to glare at me. “Did he try to grab your purse?”

Linda lowers her head, clutches his arm and firmly leads him onward.
“No, I mistook him for someone,” I hear her say. “He’s a stranger.”
We’re hardly strangers, I think. Over her shoulder, only once does Linda glance to me with yearning eyes.
 
Surprised, overjoyed that she has come to this place, I search the city, hoping that she does the same. On a rainy morning a week later, I see Linda queuing at a Dundas trolley stop. From across the street, my heart cries out to her and she looks up. Seeing my open umbrella, she mimes discomfort, turns up her raincoat collar.
As thunder growls, I hurry across to ask, “Would you share?”
“Oh, yes. Please.”
She edges into the ring of falling droplets until her shoulder touches my chest. Arms crossed over her coat, she murmurs fiercely, “Damn you John. I waited so long, waited for you to come back to me.”
“I was a fool,” I say and glance at shop workers suffering wet misery alongside us. A streetcar squeals as it slows to take on passengers.
Masked by complaining brakes, she whispers, “I work till five at Eaton’s, on Yonge Street.”
As she sprints to board the crowded trolley, I call to her. “The southwest door.”