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teresa halford

teresa halford | toronto

selected writings ...

The National Post
November 2000

Barbie and the Mir Station

With the Santa Claus Parade just around the corner, I asked Barbie the other day what she wanted for Christmas. Never coy, Barbie answered without hesitation: a Mir station.

"A what?"

"A Mir Station," lingering over each phoneme as though I were hard of hearing rather than just understandably confused. "You know, like the one the Russians built." Then, an afterthought, "Please may I have a Mir Station?" . . .

Fictions sans bornes & presque sans reproche

The Seventh Voyage

"There," thinks Anne. "Almost safe to go home." She makes Alberta call someone, anyone, everyone, leave messages, check messages, walk a bit, sit and read, stand and walk and sit and walk and stand and walk and sit and walk and "Enough!" thinks Anne. "Tired enough, finally. Sleep is imminent."

"I'm tired," thinks Alberta. "And I want to kill myself." Run and sit and stand and run and run and stand and sit and run and run and run and stand and run and run and sit and stand and run and stand and sit and run and run and run and stand and take the subway and walk some more. . . .

Books in Canada
National Short Story Winner

The Day Dali Painted My Llama

My Little Fudge Brownie, he called to me. I ran into his arms, smelling the cocoa on his breath. We shared a bowl of chocolate gelato, using the same spoon. Orson, I said, licking the smears from his lips, My Caffe Latte, did you miss me? Instead of replying, he licked some dripping gelato from my wrist. I see, I said, you simply haven't been eating well. My Godiva Chocolate, he said, I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news first, I said, feeling cold creep up my shoulders and the blood drain from my face. Well Angel Food Cake, he said, licking biscotti crumbs from the corners of my mouth, that part's actually the good news. They have restored The Magnificent Ambersons to its original glory and because of that, I have been moved into a new level, second from the top, in other words, my rates have quadrupled overnight. This visit is a free bonus. Orson, I cried, tell me you're lying. I can barely afford you already. I know, he replied, moving onto some tiramisu, but surely you could take another job? I wept bitter tears. . . .