Chronicles of Maggie- Part I Maggie in the Morning

"chronicles of maggie"- I wrote this series of short stories in the first year of teaching, probably the worst teaching assignment of my career and i wrote a story out of it. haha. Here is Part one of Chronicles of Maggie-


Maggie in the morning

One of worst parts of the day for Maggie Spencer was the morning. Every night Maggie went to bed determined to awaken earlier than 7am. This way, she wouldn’t feel as rushed and chaotic for her busy day at work. But without fail, every single morning, as her alarm phone went off at 6:30 am, Maggie felt like shooting herself. It’s too cold, she would reason. Or, I’ve planned most of the school day, I don’t need to go in early. Or, I wont wear my contact lenses today, so that will save me another 5 minutes of sleep. Today, however, was the worst day because Maggie had volunteered to supervise the school ski trip, so she would have to be at school at 5:30am. Originally, she thought it would be a great getaway from her homeroom class, an unruly, rude and obnoxious group of grade sixes. However, she had failed to do her research, realizing only too late that every single one of her students would be attending the trip. To make things worse, Maggie had been told about this from Dave, the teacher coordinating the trip a day before. “Don’t be so lazy, Maggie,” Dave had kidded. Maggie looked at him with downcast eyes. He had no clue, Dave.

In the Basement

Mr. Filmer and his wife lived in our basement during the summer of 1988. Mr. Filmer wore faded blue jeans and brown construction boots. His wife, Ingrid, had a thin, droopy face and eyes that sagged with black circles beneath them. She stayed in the basement all day while Mr. Filmer worked at Michelin, a tire factory. When I helped him bring in groceries from his old blue Ford he always offered me a cool white mint. My mother had a hard time with English names and could never pronounce his wife’s name properly. It always came out as “Ingredient”. Mr. Filmer laughed every time she said this.

Mr. Filmer fixed my ten-speed bike when the chain got caught in the wheel, he helped my dad fix the shingles on the windows, and he brought our garbage bins back from the curb on Monday afternoons. My dad told me I could really learn something from Mr. Filmer. He worked hard to provide a good home for himself, his wife and their future children.

One hot summer night, my sister Kara and I snuck down to the living room to watch an extra half hour of television. My parents slept through anything. People claimed an elephant could trample through the kitchen and they still wouldn’t hear it. I settled myself on the couch and Kara nestled into a big overstuffed Papasan chair. We flicked the television on and watched The Simpsons. I heard a muffled whimper and turned the volume lower. Kara murmured, “Did you hear that?”

I sat motionless and concentrated. This time the voice sounded louder. I heard a man’s voice. Kara pointed to the brown rectangular heating vent beside the television and said, “It’s coming from the basement.”

We darted to the vent and almost banged our heads together as we knelt down. A loud angry voice drifted up and I heard, “You bitch! Don’t fucking ever try that shit with me again. You don’t know who you’re dealing with and I don’t give a horse’s ass if they’re fucking family. If you ever tell anyone about it again, I’ll fucking kill you!!!”

I looked up and my brown eyes met Kara’s. Her mouth hung open and her small chin quivered. “That’s not Mr. Filmer,” I whispered. We jerked back and clung to each other as we heard glass shatter.

“Come back, you bitch!” Mr. Filmer bellowed.

I heard a high-pitched scream that reverberated though my small body. A door slammed.

I sat frozen and clenched my knees close. Kara yanked my hands, pulled me up and we ran to the front window. We lifted a small edge of the white curtain and peeped out.

Ingrid’s tiny body sprinted across the driveway and her thin nightgown flapped in the breeze and she jumped into the blue Ford and pressed the accelerator as she zigzagged down the street. Mr. Filmer, barefoot, ran down the driveway and stopped at the curb and watched Ingrid drive off. He stood for a minute. I shifted my weight to my left foot as I watched him. Mr. Filmer turned around and stared at the front of the house. Kara and I let go of the curtain.



One week later, Mr. Filmer rang our front door. His hair looked ratty, and stubbly hairs on his chin stuck out. He wore dirty tattered blue Levis and stank like cigarette smoke. Mr. Filmer told my father that he would vacate the basement that night. My dad leaned against the doorframe. “Well I wish you and Ingrid all the best. How is she doing? I haven’t seen her this past week.”

Mr. Filmer studied the black welcome mat. “Oh we’re going through some tough times. You know how it is.”

My dad nodded.

The next morning, I opened the basement door and crept down the stairs. The blue walls looked bare and sunlight streamed through the windows and empty boxes littered the carpet and half filled beer bottles cluttered the kitchen counter. I jolted as I felt sharp glass pierce my bare feet.

The Root Canal

I woke up late, burned my toast and spilled milk on the living room couch. I looked outside and grimaced at the ugly brown mess of snow, slush and ice. I didn’t even have boots.

A seven-minute walk to work always felt like an hour. I forgot my mittens, hat and scarf on the heating vent, so I shoved my hands deep into my thin coat pockets and tried to dodge puddles of melted ice. At the four-way intersection, Tony, the crossing guard, motioned me to stop but I continued to walk. The driver of a shiny red BMW swerved to miss me as his tires screeched and splashed me with a cold blast of dirty snow. The driver raised his fists out the window and shouted, “Watch where you’re going you stupid kid!” I stood frozen in the middle of the street. Dirty, slushy gray ice water drenched my coat and my frizzy limp hair hung like a mop.

The sign for Cosmetic and Family Dentistry came into view. As a grade twelve co-op student, I divided my days between school and work. On my first day, Joyce, the Dental Assistant, patiently showed me how to sterilize the instruments and explained the difference between the two suction tips: The thin blue one suctioned blood and saliva. The thick white suction vacuumed big particles. Joyce told a lot of funny stories. At the age of fourteen, she stuck the white suction tip against her neck until she got a huge red mark. For the rest of the week she passed it off as her first unofficial hickey. Three months into my placement, I assisted Dr. Woo with fillings, extracting wisdom teeth, cleanings and fitting porcelain veneers.

I trudged into the dental office and felt water ooze into my shoes. I walked to the back lab, hung my coat and spotted Joyce. “Sorry I’m late, Joyce, I’ve been having a horrible morn−”

Joyce shoved a dental tray and a bottle of multi-colored endocrine needles into my hands. “We’ve got a really busy morning. Dr. Woo is starting the root canal for Mr. Moroni in Operatory 2. You’re assisting.” She rushed off with a stack of x-rays in her hands.


I lumbered through the narrow hallway into Operatory 2 while my wet sneakers squeaked against the white tile.

“Thanks for joining us,” Dr. Woo greeted me.

“I’m sorry, I had the worst morning you―”

Dr. Woo broke in, introduced me as a co-op student while he pointed to the patient. Mr. Moroni’s blue eyes pierced me as he squinted and studied me. “Humph. I don’t want anyone who’s inexperienced working on me, Dr. Woo.” The corners of his mouth plunged down. Who are you calling inexperienced, you old grump?

Dr. Woo laughed. “Don’t worry. She’s great. I’ll go grab your file and then we’ll get started.” He left.

Mr. Moroni continued to frown. A cell phone rang. He shuffled in his pocket, drew his right hand out from under the gown and flipped a tiny black phone open. “Hi honey,” he said loudly. “Yeah, I’m at the dental office…” He lowered his voice, but I still heard him. “They’ve got some inexperienced student working on me. She has no idea what she’s doing.” I ripped the seal off the instrument package and dumped the contents on the tray. He spun around at the noise. I gritted my teeth and plastered a smile on.

Dr. Woo returned with a brown file folder. We both pulled on our beige latex gloves. Dr. Woo flipped on the television situated on the ceiling, above Mr. Moroni’s head.

Mr. Moroni settled back to watch Days of Our Lives. I grabbed four cotton rolls and jammed them into Mr. Moroni’s mouth. He murmured, so I removed them. He twisted his eyebrows together and barked: “Don’t put too many of those in my mouth. I have trouble breathing.”

“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind,” I said and pushed two into his mouth.

I passed Dr. Woo the small drill piece. I glanced up at the TV. Sami cried because she just found out that her boyfriend, Austin, spent the night with her sister Carrie.

Dr. Woo returned the drill piece, rose from his chair and stripped his gloves

off. “Okay. We’ll let that sit for awhile. I have to check on my other patient so I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He patted Mr. Moroni’s shoulder and looked at me. “Just keep suctioning and make sure he’s feeling comfortable.” I nodded.

I leaned over my chair, peered at Mr. Moroni and asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

He ignored me and continued to watch the TV. Sami confronted a remorseful Austin.

I swiveled in my chair, and stopped when I spotted my face in the mirror above the sink. A sullen, miserable and gloomy face stared back at me. My hair looked matted and damp. My blue scrubs seemed wrinkled and faded.

A shiny silver belt hung on the side of the dental chair. I glanced at Mr. Moroni’s covered legs. Dr. Woo used the belt to lock a patient’s legs when he performed important surgery. “Otherwise they squirm and fidget,” he would say.

Mr. Moroni fixed his eyes above. Austin pleaded with Sami to accept their failed relationship but Sami’s eyes darted violently.

I bent down, tilted forward, grabbed the belt and clasped it. Mr. Moroni didn’t flinch.

I snatched cotton rolls from the tray and loomed over Mr. Moroni’s face until he stared back at me. I smiled sweetly and rammed cotton rolls into his mouth. He grunted loudly.

“Are you trying to say something?” I asked. My voice sounded light and soft. I jutted my head upwards and saw Sami wave a kitchen knife in Austin’s face.

I clutched the white suction tip and shoved it against Mr. Moroni’s tongue. I gripped the blue suction with my right hand and wedged it down his throat. I increased the pressure until Mr. Moroni’s face turned red. His eyes watered and veins protruded from his forehead. He squirmed in his chair but couldn’t move his arms from under the gown. I forced the suction further down and watched him struggle. Mr. Moroni’s skin turned blue and cold while his head lolled to one side. I pressed two fingers against his neck. Satisfied, I placed the suctions neatly back on their holders and bounced off my chair. I peeled off my gloves, dropped them in the wastebasket and washed my hands at the sink. I heard a male scream and looked at Mr. Moroni’s drooping, silent body. Way to go Sami! I giggled.

I stepped out of the operatory room and strolled past Joyce at reception. “Hey, I’m going out for lunch. See you later.”

Joyce looked up from her work, surprised. “Mr. Moroni’s root canal is done?”

“Oh yes,” I smiled before I stepped out. “Mr. Moroni is all finished.”

Big White and Plastic

The McDonalds sign, huge and clear, had a sort of halo 3D effect that I hadn’t noticed before. “How do they feel?” the optician asked me. I didn’t say anything, but I felt sure my face gave it away. I scanned the food court from the Eye Care Place in Sheridan Mall. I could finally see.
My dad stood behind me and beamed. “They look great.” On the way home, I stared out the window. My dad asked, “What’s wrong?” I shifted uncomfortably.
“Kara better not laugh at me. They make me look different.” My dad told me they looked fine. At home I looked at my twin sister fearfully. My white plastic glasses suddenly seemed enormous. She stared at me.

“What?” I said, annoyed.
She coughed and glanced at my dad. “They look nice.”
“Thanks,” I said gruffly.

“Everything looks so clean and new,” I said to Kara as we stepped off the bus into the school playground.
“Yeah well, it’s a good thing you can finally see it all. See you later.” I watched her leave and walked towards Portable 4. Someone called my name behind me. I turned to face a few of my classmates and Anisah, my best friend in the fifth grade.
“Hi Anisah! How was your weekend?”
She blurted, “Why are they so big?”
I gulped.
She turned and giggled to the other girls.
“Whoa, where’d her face go?” I heard a boy’s voice. I flushed. Somehow I scrambled through the crowd and pushed my way into the school to the bathroom and locked myself in the farthest stall. I trembled. I could never go back there again. I would have to quit school and do home schooling. I removed my glasses and examined them. Why hadn’t I seen how ugly they were? They were big, white and plastic.
I heard footsteps. Miss Hardy, my grade five teacher, called my name and asked me to come out. I stepped out to face her. Miss Hardy displayed my art projects, made me captain of fun-day and let me lead O Canada every morning. I thought of Miss Hardy as the most beautiful person I had ever seen. She looked at my tear-strained face.
“I heard you have a new pair of glasses.” Suddenly, I hated her. I hated her cool crisp green suit and her matching earrings and her matching pumps. I hated the way her brown hair did a little flip thing at the end and her pink lips which always seemed so glossy from morning to afternoon. She didn’t know what it felt like to be a freak.
Miss Hardy lowered, wrapped her arms around my shoulders and swept me up in a small hug. I felt surprised. Teachers weren’t supposed to hug students. She released me, stood back and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m going to give you a few minutes and then I hope you will join us. Remember, it’s current events day.”
A small warmth flooded my body. I didn’t want to open my mouth, I thought I would cry again. I nodded and she left. I washed my face in the sink then I marched back outside to Portable 4. I took a deep breath before I opened the door. Miss Hardy wrote the day’s agenda on the blackboard for the class to copy down. I slid quickly into my chair. Miss Hardy turned and smiled at me. I took out my glasses and slipped them on. I pretended to study an invisible ink stain on my desk.
Nalini, my reading buddy, leaned over and whispered, “Your glasses look good on you.” I smiled. I glanced at Miss Hardy. She looked even prettier now that I could see her.

Welcome to my Short Story and Poetry Corner !

Hello everyone,
My name is Daman and I welcome you to my blog. This is how I have decided to express my creative self - through a series of pictures, insightful poems, moving passages and personal stories. I hope to give you a glimpse into who I am and what motivates me. Feel free to comment on my work- you can email me at SSbyDaman@gmail.com anytime.
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