LINDSAY WINCHERAUK

June 2023

Enter the world (mind) of Lindsay Wincherauk.

The creative wonderland of a man in his sixties threading the eyehole of a shrinking needle.

Writing. Photography. Art. Rants. Empathy. Kindness. Love. And Hana the cat!

And a whack of plus signs ++++++++++++++++ (16 = a whack).

Eleven Songs

Find more music at the bottom of the page ↓↓↓
The songs only appear in web mode

↓The Big Days↓

There comes a point in life (maybe an age) where if we are not spending most of our time cultivating our passions and chasing our dreams—eventually, you'll become nothing more than small talk.

Weather Nerds: Click Here for Vancouver Temperature Averages

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

Meet Sparkly Pingle Ball

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

10th

Bat Guano + Kimchi Chips
Melinda + Samuel (Dame + Gander)
Watch Face
Margeret Atwood
Willfull Cruelty
Dryer Sheets
Cardiologist
Cardiologist Part 2
Falling Down
Two Trees

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READ PREVIOUS EXCERPTS STARTING: May 21, 2023 (Free Speech)

Two Trees

Saturday, June 10, 2023

Soaring upward.
Scratching the sky.
Five-hundred years together.
Roots intertwined.
Beautiful lives together, never alone.

I love you.

I love you.

I’m tired, my dear.

Maybe it’s time.

Let’s lie down together and give our love back to the earth that has given us much. We've had glorious lives.

Together forever.
Tomorrow anew.

||

Grammarly Readability Score = Grammarly took the day off.

Grammarly Readability Record = 99 (May 1, 2023)

Want More of Lindsay Today Click PDF Above↑↑↑

Today You Will Find:

Jolibee Vancouver +

Multiple Peach Arch Crossings

The Stairs

The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us.

4. The Law

Bubble Bath

I must believe everything will fall into place.

I suffer from debilitating insomnia and depression. I don't anguish over my efforts. They are undeniable. I work at my craft at least twelve hours a day. Failed writer. No business chasing your dreams.

Trying to thread a needle at sixty-two…the thread is thick; the eye is shrinking.

I will keep trying.

Throw in broken glasses.

I will keep trying. I keep trying.

I Draw a Bath

When I was a little boy, maybe six, a year after escaping (?) the clutches of a home where unfit mothers were sent to birth illegitimate children.

By this time, I've known the people I am being cared for by for about one year. My first memory is of my three brothers (?) chanting, “Lindsay, you're not one of us,” → when I was five. A story for another time.

Anyway, I loved bath time. We were a struggling family, so we didn't have the luxury of a bubble bath. My baths were usually just tepid, hard water, without soap. I still loved it.

One day, mum bought three bars of Zest.

Bath Time. I hopped in before the tub filled. I grabbed a bar of Zest, and, with my right hand, started rubbing it frantically on the bottom of the tub. A soapy skin floated to the surface. When I got the Zest worn down, I held it under the tap. If I was lucky, a few bubbles formed. I was blissful. I loved my baths. Except for the time, one of my brothers (?) threw our cat into the tub with me. At least that wasn't as bad as when the same brother encouraged me to stick my dinner knife into the wall outlet.

I hop into my bath. The water is steamy. I pour a heaping helping of bubble bath into the water. The tub fills with glorious bubbles. I'm in heaven. New glasses. Trying. Trying. Trying. For a moment, I feel at ease. Everything will work out. I was a model employee. Karma will take care of me.

My calm ends. Tears roll down my cheeks. Despite being birthed illegitimate, I've survived.

I worked hard.

I never gave up.

I've earned having luxurious bubble baths.

I think that's the reason for the heaping helpings.

I continue to cry. I'm turning sixty-two, soaking in a bubble bath, with the tears pouring from my eyes. And yet, the SCUM floated to the top, SCUM that threw me out with the bathwater.

Why am I crying?

Because I never quit trying. I can't afford the cheap glasses I bought. Two years and my life savings have run dry. Life on the street will be a death sentence for me and for my eleven-year-old cat, and my relationship. The tears won't stop.

I did nothing wrong.

The SCUM rises to the top. If I lose everything, they think they will have won.

What does it say about a company when their most senior employee ends up homeless?

I'm not the only person who’s been deposited in a soap-less tub.

I will never give up.

I have written over 240 ‘THOUGHTS ON BOOKS’ because I’m a respected Influencer.

I butter another book. Who am I kidding? I can’t afford butter.

Time of Death

Jesus, that’s harsh. Thank you for fighting for me. Are you okay?

No.

Can I give you a hug?

Thank you.

I call to the stand, Lindsay.

Which one of us?

The older, slimmer one.

Fuck off.

Do you swear to tell the truth, blah, blah, blah?

Yes.

Take your time. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, I just want to be treated respectfully and be given what I’m deserved.

No further questions.

Cross-Examination

Can you tell the court what your duties at the company were?

One. Two. Three. Four. Jaxon called me to go to a client’s site because there had been an alleged sexual assault by one of our employees. He wanted me to handle it because he felt I had life experience and his other managers, who did far less than me, were too immature to handle it. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Jaxon and Soddy tasked me with writing our safety manual and attending safety meetings. Eleven. Twelve. Jaxon and Soddy had me travel with clients to sporting events in other cities, and to Edmonton to help with that branch’s day-to-day operations. Fourteen. Fifteen... and they even had me plan the company Christmas parties.

Were you any good at your job?

I was outstanding. Fifteen years, I never missed a day, was never late, and did everything I ever asked of myself. In fifteen years, I never even had a performance review. I was a champion. The face of the company.

They claim you only made sales.

You claim to be a lawyer.

Order

Sorry, your honour, Geez, my business card even says Supervisor.

You seem to have trust issues; can you expand on that?

Did you just crack that window open? Trust issues. Fifteen years, doing more than the other managers, Jaxon wouldn’t put me on the payroll for the first six. I pressed him. He said to pay me what I’m worth, he’d have to give me a substantial raise. I told him to do it. He replied, “If you want a raise, why don’t you go on welfare?”

That same year at the company Christmas party, he asked me about a guy who used to work for the company. The guy he asked about is gay. I’m not friends with the guy. When I told Jaxon, he said, “I thought you guys were on the same team.”

As for Lyler, in 10 years of eating together every Monday, he never once looked me in the eye. And besides, he asked me repeatedly what I thought my future with the company should be.

As for Soddy… he’s nothing more than a sycophant.

Why didn’t you get a job at Footlocker?

Why didn’t you find a job in the same industry they fired you from?

Let’s see, the pandemic, I’m getting older, and they blocked me from working in the industry.

That sounds like an excuse.

Your firm, ordered by my ex-employer to block me; you fucking know that.

You need to mitigate their losses by searching for employment.

I’m 62 now, and there are no careers for me; remember you blocked me, and besides, I’m a writer; I’m pitching 18 manuscripts right now, and I have sent out 100s of proposals.

Yay. Go me go.

Order. I demand order in the court

I need to cheer for myself, future me, your Honour. He’s battling Depression. I think him—me—pitching 18 manuscripts while aging and struggling with the monsters over there, and the beast that is Depression is a testament to who I am—going to be—and always have been. I’ve, he has sent out over 400 proposals. Wow. Fucking failed. They’re faces are failed.

Wow!

Thanks, judge.

Which one?

Me, 62-year-old me. And him because he, too, is me.

The wheels of the bus go round and round.

They sure do, but justice moves at a fucking snail’s pace.

Aren’t you nothing more than a failed writer who has no business chasing his dreams?

Did you just tell a 62-year-old to give up?

Sure did.

Are you even a lawyer?

I ask the questions here. No further questions. I’m sorry for what we are putting you through.

Did their lawyer just apologize to 62-year-old me?

Sure did.

Fucking monsters.

62-year-old me, I watched the monsters. They were shifting in their seats the whole time you were on the stand, and they stared at me, trying to intimidate me. They can’t scare me. And then, the more you talked, the more their scaley skin peeled away, revealing who they really are, greedy cowards.

I know it must suck to seek the approval of your father, who you will never become.

Daddy issues.

Daddy issues.

62-year-old me, in the last 1,000 days, did we find out who our father is?

No, but we found out we are 48% Norwegian, and we found a first cousin. So, we might find out who our father is for the third time.

The first one?

Arghh…

My Lawyer

I call you three monsters to the stand.

Do you swear to tell…

Why are the three of you laughing?

What happened?

Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie.

Huh, no further questions.

Don’t you mean: Thanks?

I don’t want to lie.

Defence, would you like to cross?

No.

Quit growling; you’re not scary when you are out of your costumes.

Order

I have my verdict.

I find the three monsters to be guilty of being greedy fuckers.

I order them to pay three years’ salary plus damages for what you’ve done to these two men, man.

The older one may be slimmer, but I can feel the pain emanating from his soul.

But…

Shut it, Monsters. My verdict is my verdict; you must pay.

The courtroom is quaking. Thousands of monsters are clawing at the outer walls. They can’t enter; it’s a court rule; however, nobody has made it home after leaving. Once outside, the monsters ripped to shred every plaintiff while they basked in their moment of victory.

Not today. As the gavel came down, A vapour filled the room and POOF, Jason was before us.

Jason?

59-year-old me, you know Jason?

I’ve been up here for a while.

62-year-old you, toss me the backpack.

Jason slipped his ghoulish hands inside the pack, pulled out a baseball bat, and began violently bludgeoning the three monsters.

Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash.

Four thousand smashes. Four thousand-one, an extra one for the coward… Four thousand-three.

But the bludgeoning wasn’t to kill. Instead, it covered the monsters in a beacon—that would lead everyone they ever exploited and killed through greed, and their families, to them, for them to get revenge. This beacon soared into the universe, calling the exploited and their loved ones to the monster’s home, waiting for the monsters to return so that they could inflict suffering and pain far worse than death itself.

Did you do that, Jason?

Yeah, I’ve had some time to practice curses.

Lindsay, you need to run.

What about the monsters through the door?

59-year-old me, what are you doing?

I’m entering you; my time here is done.

A chill rushes through 62-year-old me.

Follow me, Lindsay, there’s a back door; we must go now; now that the case is resolved, it won’t be long until the monsters break in.

Run. Lindsay. Run.

Jason opened a back portal

A dense fog filled the realm.

A plank stretched downward for about 100 yards.

Go. Lindsay. Go.

Thank you, Jason.

I owe you, farewell for now, my friend.

With every step I took, the plank narrowed. A few steps ahead of me, two massive sanders were whisking back and forth along the sides of the plank, shaving it away.

In the first twenty yards, the plank had narrowed from five feet wide to four;

At forty yards: three;

At 60 yards: two;

At 80 yards: one…

My foot slipped off, and a fiery abyss with an infinite number of arms reached upward, trying to grab hold of me and pull me into the unknown. I miraculously regained my balance. 90 yards, and the plank disappeared before I sprang into the air, clutching the wall on the other side. The arms of five monsters latched onto my ankles. I kicked and kicked and kicked frantically, crushing the faces of the monsters, and causing them to fall away, shrieking to their deaths.

I pulled myself upward.

I cried.

I lay on his stomach, exasperated, backpack in hand.

I rolled over and rubbed my eyes.

When I opened them and the phosphenes floating before me finally dissipated, I looked up and, to my dismay, uttered →

Tim K, John G, Bern P, Scott F… fuck.

||

More to come...

Start The Stairs from the beginning: June 2, 2023

I want to make a difference in this world!