I have to confess that I’m not a single mother aspiring to be a writer, or JK Rowling, or a real estate salesman from Vancouver (all claims in previous posts). In fact I’m a male nurse from Winnipeg, Canada ad I have multiple personalities. All the previous entries that were written under various names were actually the different personalities that are bottled up inside me. I’ve decided to start this blog as a way to release these different voices.

    In future entries I’ll discuss the challenges of living with 14 different people inside you and how hard that makes it to decide what to order in a restaurant. But for today, I’d like to share a short-short story that I wrote recently.





The Soap Maker’s Tale




     On the morning the soap maker drew blood in the shower, he’d been pondering the future of soap made in the shape of a hand. While the funnel of water came down over his shoulders, the soap maker turned his hand around, opening and closing his fingers, wondering what position the hand-shaped soap should come in. Would people be drawn to a hand-shaking position or would they rather scrub their belly with a fist ? Business had been terribly slow the past year and he needed a radically new idea to save his skin and soap.

   With his free hand, the soap maker scrubbed his body. The more he thought, the harder he scrubbed until he noticed that a ribbon of red was streaming down with the water. Oh, God he’d washed himself free of his skin, he thought to himself. He put the exfoliating soap down on the tray, rinsed himself free of suds and turned the shower off.

   Stepping out of the shower, he noticed how badly he’d hurt himself. There was a palm-sized patch of blood on his shoulder. It was producing more red. The soap maker grabbed a towel and tried to stop the blood but he realized he was only succeeding in ruining a white towel.

   “Will you get that off us !!” came a muffled shout from his shoulder.

    The soap maker froze with the towel pressed tighter than ever to his shoulder.

    “People need to breath, don’t they ?”

     The soap maker did a quick mental check of what he’d eaten the previous night. Nothing strange. Nothing foreign or unknown.

    “And that light was good, give us more of that light,” came another voice.

    And that’s when the soap maker learned of the family of four that had been living inside of him his entire life.

     Freeloading in some sense.

     He stayed at home for a week to let the wound scar over and then the voices were silenced.

    When he went back to work, he set about making molds of hands for a new soap shape.