“C”

C         Controlling Cathy coerces her coworkers into covering her shifts when she can’t cope with her cramps.  Keeping her code of comportment, when curled up in convulsions, requires copious quantities of composure so that customers can’t complain about her incapacitation. Crabby, and craving to be in the comfort of her home, accompanied by crème caramel and coffee, she crawls into her Corvette convertible, careens around corners, and charges through cross-walks, until she comes upon her cozy condominium complex.  No camping trips this coming weekend, she coos to Carrie, her cockatoo, cooped up in her cage, Cathy’s closest companion since Cam, her common-law husband, became convicted on criminal charges of Consorting, or some kind of crap, concocted by crafty, corrupt, corpulent politicians in cahoots with their cousins in the capital.  She’s campaigned and connived to get her cutie-pie out, but always encounters some crazy credence to keep him contained. Convinced his sentence will be cut, her conniptions have calmed considerably.  Instead, she concentrates on the coming craft fair at the Convention Centre, for which she’s constructing a car made of cat-tails, collected from Columbia Creek.  Many corporate companies in cooperation with local carpenters create a new consortium every year close to Christmas. One has to celebrate life, and not get caught up in the colossal inconveniences to caring citizens close to the 25th calendar day of December. “I might bake Cam a cake,” Cathy considers after chasing away the carolers. A creamy creation chock- full of currents, carrots, cranberries, and cherries; glazed with canned cinnamon icing; laced with Caribbean Rum, Crème de Cacao – and maybe a carving knife, or a cleaver in the center. Then she cried, mostly because her uterus contracted again.  

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