A Picnic Unseen
A Story from UBC's Creative Writing Program
Hello friends and all those who feel ‘inescapably foreign,’
Today, I’m sharing short fiction under 1000 words related to the theme “Variety in culture, unity in our humanity.”
If you’d like to collaborate, there are two options. 1. Write a story and send it to me by November 30th so I can publish it on December 2nd. 2. Write the story on your Substack, and I will crosspost it as long as it’s under 1000 words and relates to the theme “Variety in culture, unity in our humanity.”
You can email me at nolanyumawriter@gmail.com
A Picnic Unseen
Emma Maes always followed her nose and often ignored her other senses.
She sat in a pub where the alternative youth came to discuss their artistic dreams and cure their hangovers. Slabs of wood in all shades of brown created the walls and counters. Together with the smooth finished concrete, the small brewery felt gezellig and industrial at the same time.
It was her first time in Vancouver, British Columbia, and she wanted to eat at a place where she wouldn’t be the only one ordering a beer at 12 PM on a Friday.
Brassneck on Main Street turned out to be a great option.
When she asked the tattoo-laden waitress why she brought her a basket of warm bread and an assortment of cheeses, she told her it was from a man sitting a few tables away.
She looked back and saw that his eyes were a fierce husky blue, untrustworthy but seductive. They were the only two people in the bar that sat alone. Others were in groups of four to six, likely trying to cure their hangover with nine-dollar juices or a pint.
‘Don’t most guys order a girl a drink?; she asked, unworried that anyone would hear her.
‘Yeah, but I figured you might miss proper bread and cheese that isn’t cheddar.’
‘Why’s that?’
The man’s precarious look suddenly vanished behind his smile when he stood up and approached her.
‘You’re European, aren’t you?’
‘How would you know?’
‘The way you studied the menu told me you’re not from around here.’
‘I could be from anywhere.’
‘You could be, but I don’t think so. Not from the way you swirled your beer to create the slightest bit of foam when your beer went flat.’
‘Only Europeans love alcohol?’
‘No, I—’
‘And the British love flat beer.’
‘I took a wild guess, and now that I’ve heard your accent, I know that I’m right.’
‘Where’s my accent from?’
‘Holland.’
‘Grote fout!’
‘No, wait, the land of perfectly served beer where the foam is a finger or two thick—Belgium.’
Emma laughed and said, ‘I haven’t met many people who know the difference.’
‘I’ve been around.’
Has he been around, or has he travelled around? Emma didn’t bother asking. For one, she wasn’t completely confident with her English; and two, she wasn’t one to judge. When he asked her if she’d like to experience the best culinary excursion she’d have in Canada, all she asked was his name: Ethan Reynolds.
Emma stepped into Ethan’s beat-up pickup truck parked outside of the pub.
They drove down Main Street and took a right on the tent-ridden street— Hastings, where emaciated women sold their bodies, and the mentally ill were left forgotten with needles in their arms.
‘I assume this isn’t where the restaurant is.’
‘Who said we’re going to a restaurant? And you’d be surprised how much restaurants cost in this area.’
‘I’m surprised this is rated as one of the most liveable cities.’
Ethan laughed but turned up the country radio channel. They crossed the Iron Workers Memorial Bridge and made their way further North, where the residential neighbourhoods got less and less dense. Ethan then made his way down a logging road without anyone in sight.
He parked his truck at the side of the road, pointed at a narrow trail surrounded by the thick temperate rainforest, and said, ‘Only a kilometre down this path. It’s mostly downhill, so watch your step.’
Ethan carried a seventy-litre hiking backpack and always offered his hand, even when the boulders or steeper sections were nothing she couldn’t handle.
Was he one of those guys that knew she craved to be touched? One of the vultures that could spot the broken?
He seemed to share all his knowledge about the woods and pointed out the abounding variance of trees: Western Hemlock, Douglas Fir, and the greatest of all, the Western Red Cedar.
‘You Europeans may hold thousand-year-old secrets in your cathedrals and ruins, but when I walk past these eight-hundred-year-old trees, I find true wisdom.’
Emma just smiled, not sure if she believed him. He kept comparing her beauty to all the wonders of the world. She liked it, but she hadn’t been pursued like this in years.
And she didn’t trust it, not after the last man that pursued her in this way.
Her heart was beating. Scared. Curious. And wanting more. When she again asked what they would be eating in the middle of the woods, Ethan just smiled.
She checked her phone—no service. There wasn’t much daylight left, and nobody else knew where she was. Who would she even call? The hotel lobby? She didn’t have any friends here yet. Ethan kept telling her not to worry and to trust him.
Finally, they arrived at a small opening overlooking the large inlet. She could see sailboats in the distance and a small, affluent neighbourhood across the water. Her worries vanished.
‘I wish I could smell more of the ocean from up here. It looks so healthy that I want to taste it—if that makes sense to you,’ Emma said as she stared down at the deep blue waters from a cliff.
Ethan laughed and grabbed a cooler from out of his backpack. Then Emma saw what he’d been hiding from her.
Oysters.
He opened their shells flawlessly. He told Emma to dress the oysters with the fresh horseradish and the homemade hot sauces he brought. Emma could feel her blood pumping, and she could now smell and feel the wetness of the ocean. Ethan sucked the most prized sweetness from its shell while staring at Emma with those husky blue eyes.
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