Eufemia Fantetti Fiction

FICTION
My first big foray into the field of fiction occurred when I was ten and wrote a book about a spectacularly fast horse called Lightning! By book I mean it was five pages long. And due to the lack of spellchecker technology, the book was titled Lighting!
It was an ambitious project, considering it was also Illustrated By The Author!! This meant that the horse didn’t really look like a horse per se, but fortunately still fell under the category of barnyard animal.

“Oh, that’s very nice, you draw a nice donkey,” said my father.

The text also wasn’t very promising. Page 1: This is Lighting! Page 2: Lighting! is the fastest horse in the West. I think it ended with Goodbye Lighting! I used aluminum foil on the cover, and made only one copy.

Here’s the weird thing – I didn’t care for horses at all. Not then, not now. Don’t get me wrong, I think they are majestic creatures, but being a city mouse for many years I don’t come across too many horses. Once I cried because I was too scared to go on a pony ride, and once I fell off a horse when it reared up, and that as they say was that - but I digress...

I’ve learned a lot since then. Not about horses though, you’re on your own there.

I studied fiction, nonfiction and poetry at The Writer’s Studio at Simon Fraser University, where I was surrounded by talented and tenacious writers and gifted teacher-mentors. There is no better stomping ground combination for creativity.

Our House
Winner, Highly Commended Short Stories 2004
Commonwealth Broadcasting Association

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A Mother, Her Daughter & the Holy Spirits published in Emerge, The Writer's Studio Anthology, Simon Fraser University Press, Fall 2007 READ THE ENTIRE PIECE		Loss of Appetite published in Open Minds Quarterly, Summer 2008, Volume X, Issue II READ THE ENTIRE PIECE
All I can remember from Church is the suffering of Christ carved into the Stations of the Cross and glorious stained glass windows exalting the Divine. The sun would shine through, spreading a vibrant, kaleidoscopic light as if it were scattered through a thousand prisms. Mary had Bordeaux red lips and Cognac coloured eyes, the same colours my father had stocked in the basement. I would look down and see my pale skin illuminated with fragments of majestic colours: ruby, sapphire, emerald. Purple Jesus. Such stunning shades and now my world is a stark, slate grey. Some days I might even describe it as the dazzling brilliance of beige. In my dreams, the heart of Jesus, wrapped in thorns, is brought to me on a platter. I sit terrified, trembling and unworthy. Uncertain of how to proceed I watch it pulsate. During one of these reccurring nightmares it suddenly dawned on me that I was meant to swallow it, like a medieval sin-eater, supporting the Son of God in his effort to banish blasphemy and dissolving everyone’s damnation. My mother arrived - just in time - and slapped my face.		Read to me, she says. He pretends to be asleep. Read to me, she says again. I know you’re awake, come on, read to me. He rolls over and pinches her. He turns on his reading lamp as he gets out of bed. In the kitchen he pours himself a mug of vodka and carries it back to the bedroom. What? He asks, standing in front of the bookshelf. What? She always answers a question with a question. It used to be cute. It meant she had an inquisitive mind, he thought. He grinds his teeth. What do you want me to read to you? Anaïs Nin? Emily Bronte? Dickens? De Sade?