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Lately you may have noticed that the Dog Sh*t Fairy hasn't had the same dedication to her job that she has had in the past. Give her a break! Just like everyone in Whistler she is holding down two jobs and when she's not busy collecting bags of dog sh*t she works her second job mediating an issue between Captain Hook and the Lost Boys over something very un-whimsical sounding called an Asphalt Plant. She called around to get someone to cover her Dog Sh*t Fairy shifts, but Santa Claus said he's only trained in dropping off little packages. And likewise the Easter Bunny said that he only knows how to hide little brown things for people to find.
So the Dog Sh*t Fairy is imploring the dog owners of Whistler to help her out. She knows it's an imposition, but would be ever so grateful if you can dispose of your little white bags of dog sh*t in the nearest garbage receptacle, rather than leaving them in the bushes by trails or tied to tree branches. She promises that she'll be back to work and collecting your little white bags as soon as this whole asphalt plant situation is sorted, so don't worry! A decision is not far away...
Bio: Jessica Jones did not send a bio, but judging from the fact she submitted her entry with 20 minutes to spare we'll assume she's a long-term Whistler resident.
Swimming to Johnny Depp
By Katherine Fawcett
The nattering voices of children looking for snacks and dry towels, the incessant wheeze of a de-barked wiener dog tied to the picnic table, the shrieks of bikinied teens on an inner tube splashing each other.
It all fades to a dull hum when I see Him.
Far across the rippling water, standing god-like on a raft in the middle of the lake, untouchable, sparkling in the sunlight. I shake my head and rub my eyes. Could it be a mirage? A miracle? Heatstroke? He runs his fingers through his hair. Wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. Shifts his weight from hip to hip. Licks his lips.
I hear birds singing. Exotic birds. Extinct exotic birds. And some harp music. Or maybe a cello.
The distance between us is an eternity yet it is nothing. His body glistens - tanned and dripping wet. He has the sleek muscles and tight skin of a race horse. I don't need my glasses to know that it's Johnny Depp. Without that French girl. There's a Tibetan Mastiff by his side. A glass of chardonnay in one hand. His hair curls to his shoulders, oh, the shoulders of a man who could hold me tenderly one moment and build a set of shelves the next, shelves for his collection of literary classics and tastefully framed photos of his mother.