The Doctor’s Office


As the majestic snow fell upon the tree outside of the hospice window, James regretted ever being here. During the year, he could be strong, or at least strong enough to keep him out of the ‘nut house’. But with his onset injuries and Christmas just around the corner, he was unable to hold it together, let alone focus on what was going on right in front of him.

“So what did you like to do best before the war?” said Doctor Smith. He didn’t know how to speak to veterans, and was extremely awkward at starting conversations.

“Did you practice a sport?”

James looked up from his focus on the frosted trees outside the window; this was the first question that Doctor Smith asked him today that he was willing to give a serious attempt to answer.

“Yes, football”, James said with hesitation, as if thinking of a time before-the-war was long ago; in a separate life time.

Doctor Smith quickly stood up and closed his binder, detecting the awkwardness in the room as a third part; tangible but its location was unknown all at the same time.

“Well, you will be able to play football again, better than ever!”, he said, trying to sound promising. “All the pain will go away. You are a fortunate young man. Then you will play football like a champion!”

There was a somber, depressing silence in the room as both James and Doctor Smith acknowledged the solid cast that ascended from James’ knee to his heal on his right leg.

James flinched a little.

“What will you do when the war is over, if it’s over?”, Doctor Smith asked. He, like the rest of Europe, hoped the war would end soon, but he could never be too sure.

James looked up from his now focus on his knee and glanced at the Irish flag hanging from the wall.

“I will go to the States,” he said. “Maybe marry.”

Doctor Smith was not impressed.

“The more a fool you are. A man must not marry. He cannot marry. He should not place himself in a position to lose. You already did that once,” he said as he looked back at James’ knee. “Men should find something they cannot lose.”

James was puzzled. “But why would I necessarily lose it?”

The moment those words came out of James’ mouth, he wished he could stuff them back in before Doctor Smith ever noticed. James knew the weekly routine; he would come to therapy, say something to through Doctor Smith off the deep end, and spend the next 56 minutes listening to Doctor Smith and his advice that had no real reason for anything.



Man in Wheelchair charged with DUI


Today an 87 year-old man is being charged with drinking and driving after driving his motorized wheelchair through local business outdoor displays.

Larry Johnson from Louisiana was coming back from Wednesday Night Bingo when he began driving 7m/h down his small-town sidewalk, causing chaos for families walking, knocking down displays of local-businesses, and nearly getting into a car accident when he failed to look both ways before crossing the street.

After witnesses contacted the Louisiana Police Department, it was discovered that Johnson’s blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit to operate a motorized wheelchair.

Larry Johnson claims that he had no idea that his town had a by-law prohibiting a person form operating a motorized wheelchair while drunk.

“No one told me about that”, says Johnson. “Besides, I’ve been driving my wheelchair from Bingo ever Wednesday night after having a beer or two for years and I’ve never been caught.”

Due to Johnson’s lack of a driver’s licence, officials say they are unable to give demerit points for his inappropriate actions. Instead, he must pay a $2,000 fine for public display of intoxication and will be forced to operate a manual wheelchair.


Thank you so much to the Comm. Tech class for this amazing adaptation of my news report!



Suburban Epic


On mid-summer day afternoons, I pass my opened window in my bedroom to hear a strange but unfortunately familiar sound. The sounds of loud, aggressive shouts followed by several curse words in a foreign language fill my bedroom as I become intrigued to what ruckus is going on outside. The only thing I can think of that can be remotely similar to the noise is someone playing squash in a tunnel. Suddenly, the noise is followed by a bitter smell, almost like gasoline. I finally look out my window and see Ingrid, my neighbour, eighty-six years old, and attempting to start her lawn mower, yet again! Others on the street offer to mow the lawn for her, that it is unnecessary for the octogenarian to put her body through so much stress. But Ingrid just turns around, swears under her breath and continues to groom the grass. Nobody on the street takes offense to her actions. We all understand that her protective exterior is harder that her soft interior, which she is never willing to admit, exists. Her husband passed away nearly 5 years ago and she is processing through the stages of grieving. Now she is on the stage of anger and self-dependency, which is unpleasant for us but is integral for her healing. Until she gets through her furious stage, my Thursday afternoons will always consist of being interrupted by Ingrid’s shouts and curse words as she does her own landscaping!



Hello. My name is Daniela Grace. I am a writer. Though I identify as a writer, I am a numbers person. I care about both sides equally, which is often thought of as strange. But it isn’t to me. In fact, I find it quite normal.

My motto is that there are two sides to every story. This is my creative side to the story. I feel that my writing also reflects this theme; there are always two perspectives, two views, two sides to the story, (to make things more complicated, sometimes there are more than just two!) This blog is my portfolio of my experiences exploring the 3-dimensional aspects that are story telling. Because to be frank, there is no right or wrong side to a story, it is always a matter of perspective thinking.