Waving Not Drowning

From the end of the subway line she takes the bus 23 stops. The transit app tells her so. Figuring in traffic and time of day she should arrive at the hospital no later than 9 pm which may infringe upon visiting hours however Lori Ann hopes that they'll make an exception seeing as she's not visiting, technically. It's recon, undercover stealth research. She has her notebook, digital voice recorder and built in camera on her phone. The trick will be to fly under the radar and be as inconspicuous as possible, hence the sneakers and baseball cap. Just another random kid kicking around the emergency room waiting for triage or maybe on a friend or family member. Judging from the map she studied online she should be able to shuffle from one area to another rather innocuously in case security or an orderly starts getting too nosy.When Lori Ann takes on a project she goes all Hardy Boys-Nancy Drew on it. Too many latchkey kid afternoons in elementary school, hours poring over detec...

It's a bit too loud and the music is obviously being streamed from a Best of '90's satellite station specializing in one hit wonders and annoying dance remixes. Marky Mark, Jesus Jones. There's no empty solo seat so he places his narrow metal clipboard on the massive communal re-purposed barnboard table surrounded by chrome and naugahyde rotating stools cemented to the ceramic tile. He has ten, maybe twenty, for a proper cup of coffee and this is his preferred haunt. A welcome anomaly in the slowly gentrifying hood, tucked in beside old peeler bars and run down taverns. Spread out around him is a mess of actor writer types, permastudents, with scripts deliberately scattered, silently entreating attention. Laptops and smartphones far outnumber the mugs and pastries. He adjusts his utility belt, places his cappuccino on the rough hewn plank, pulling his gun to the left so it clears the backrest. A sudden squawk erupts from his radio. Heads swivel towards him, curious, war...

They enter through the door together. She makes her way into the crowded car. Only then does she look over her shoulder to realize he has planted himself near the first pole. A flash of betrayal obscures her face. He is immovable. Feigning intention she backtracks to him, grasps the hanging strap above her head and roots herself. Compliant only on her terms. He reeks of defiance. In no way will he accommodate her. This is where he stands, immutable, unyielding. As always, it is up to her to bend and sway, fill the spaces between, round off his sharp edges, modify at a moment's notice. She is liquid, he is stone. She flows and surrounds, seeps into every pore and crevice, enveloping his implacable self with her tidal substance. Ebb and flow, seeking balance, equilibrium. The struggle is monumental yet she can not give way. The months turn to years. He is resolute in his choices, convicted. This battle will rage on for days to come, there is no means of extrication short of abandonme...

He knows, oh, he knows. He knows EXACTLY what he's doing. You. Sir. SIR! You with the Donlands transfer, yes YOU sir, don't pretend you can't hear me, I KNOW you hear me. You CAN NOT USE that transfer to get into the station; you HAVE TO GET OFF here- this is the LAST STOP for you, sir. The entire bus resonated with her bullhorn hawkishness. Middle aged, overflowing in her seat, with processed yellow hair and thick black lines drawn across her lids, she commandeered the 56 like she was driving the Secret Service's motorcade. This is what Kit's mom calls a harpy. Mean, crotchety, and righteously indignant. It was obvious to the rest of the riders that this older East Indian man who was apparently subverting the system by riding illegally with the wrong paper transfer was ignorant of his actions. He barely spoke English. She Ra of the Bus Co. ceaselessly berated and threatened this man in full voice at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon while driving through East York. An ...

It's the back of her hands. That's where she sees it the most. The papery, delicate, sunpocked skin, wrinkled even  in repose. They look so old. Amanda never thought of her aunt as old, not even when she was a little girl. It was always Aunt Claire, the cool aunt, the fun aunt, the one with the long straight hair and groovy headbands, the huge record collection, jars of solid perfume and real wooden clogs from Holland. They spent endless hours hiking back roads, climbing trees, making up songs while skipping flat stones across the hidden pond on MacKenzie's Bluff. Claire taught Amanda about boys, let her experiment for hours with her makeup. The Lancome gift bags that came with purchase always ended up in her knapsack after a weekend visit. If it wasn't for Claire, Amanda never would've come to appreciate the importance of moisturizing year round or have mad money stashed with a spare key, hair elastic, and condom in the secret pocket of her wallet. The twenty dolla...

Perspective is a choice. It doesn't matter how many times she tells herself this, how many affirmations she tapes to the wall next to the bathroom sink, her sense of perspective left the building long ago. She's been in the weeds for months. A dark, black hole of despair curdled with anger and deep, bewildering sadness. A slow processor. Jessie's friends are tired and wary. Let it go, move on, you're better off. Breathe. As if. Suddenly single with 2 small kids after thirteen years as Someone's Person rocked her sense of self, shattering her foundation. Pat didn't love her. He was playing at marriage with kids. He felt nothing but disappointment. Jess could fill tomes dedicated to disappointment, entire libraries. Risperdal took the edge off but she couldn't be high and keep it together for the girls. Grandparents, daycare, long runs on the seawall, primal screams in old growth forest, these consume her. She is too late. She missed her chance. Moments of sel...

First guy I like turns out to be a murderer. Not a good sign. I mean, it's not like I knew beforehand or anything- that would make me an idiot, right? That's the problem these days. There's no re-con. I mean, how do you check people out? You can google them, sure, but if some dude's got a regular name, a common, everyday, dime a dozen name, then you're inundated with thousands of hits and links and pages and pictures and...it's too much. Sharon sighs then takes a bite of her double dark chocolate cake pop smothered in strawberry icing and a long pull of her fancy coffee drink slathered in whipped cream. Jenna is convinced all that sugar is going to make Sharon crazy. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs crazy. Every day it's the same thing, some cake on a stick or elaborate french pastry and a ginormous whipped cream coffee. That's a $10 snack right there. Jenna's no idea how Shar pays for it all but who's she to judge. If it keeps her head screwed on straight...

She is breathtakingly beautiful. That's not just a saying, Marinda really does take people's breath away. Men walk into telephone poles passing her on the street. Light standards- they bounce off and grapple for a moment to find equilibrium then follow her with their gaze until she's out of sight. Longing.  It's an ease, a quiet confidence coupled with stunning beauty; a grace and elegance married in strength and sexuality. Power. Potential. Men and women want to sleep with her. Marry her. Possess her, ingest her then travel the world with her, climbing mountains and rescuing malnourished orphan children while digging wells in Eritrea with her. She inspires that depth of devotion. A fascination and dedication known only by gurus and cult leaders. Except she's neither. Never practiced yoga a day in her life. Namaste what? As for cults, her parents escaped with the family when she was 3. Her brother and sister have made a relative go of things in the outside world. Be...

Jason had her number. He had everyone's number as soon as they walked onto his lot. The only reason anyone ever comes onto a used car lot is to find a great deal or what they believe is a great deal because they can't afford to drive anything else. The young guys can't afford insurance on their foreign status symbol dream cars and the recovering drunks and reprobates can't afford anything else. Young couples with kids and dogs in search of a second car they can rationalize as relatively safe yet can drive it into the ground for a few grand; new divorcees who walked away from it all rather than put up a fight. Jason's seen them all, sometimes within the same day. He's lucky. Ahmed and Karim are top notch mechanics. He lets them work on side projects in the service bay when nothing else is moving on the lot. Ahmed's cousin of a cousin's sister's brother or something has a line on old cabs, cop cars and delivery vehicles. They don't move many of the...

I should probably go. He gently unbinds his limbs from hers, elevates himself up and over to the side of the bed. Her fingers trace the length of his spine. She imagines her hand leaving an imprint visible only when their bodies interlock. A secret branding. His fingers come to rest in the crease where her hip portrudes like a handle. Grab on. He gives a quick squeeze, no more than a pulse, then starts to dress. She can tell by the set of his shoulders, the turn of his head that he's already gone. They are unaccustomed to being seen, known, revealed. She draws herself up to match his height, drapes herself across his body from behind, clasping her hands over his heart. For a moment they fuse into each other's skin, their breath aligned, tempted to begin again. Her head falls into the curve of his neck. The air changes between them. I have to go. What transpires in that ephemeral communion between two lovers, what causes the incremental shift of tectonic plates to slide out of b...

Every five minutes Robin pops off the couch, dumping the sleeping cat from her lap and opens her apartment door, pads sock footed down the hall and wrestles with the lock on the main door to the old three story Victorian. Somehow the landlord managed to install the deadbolt backwards and upside down. After seven years Robin still struggles with unlocking it on the first try. It's a blistering cold spring day, minus fourteen with windchill. Sliding her hand through the double doors to root around in the oversized mailbox, she was mining for gold, some magic money in the form of a forgotten insurance claim or belated birthday cheque. One last payout. It's been three weeks since her last cheque and all her bills were past due.Who knew 6 months of EI would evaporate so quickly? It seems like yesterday Phil called her into his office. Apparently Robin's presence was making the rest of the office uncomfortable. It would be best for everyone involved if she left, no hard feelings,...

It was an irrational fear, he knew that. Intellectually Craig understood that he wasn't going to drown or be eaten alive by sharks or electrocuted by eels but ever since he was a child, lakes have paralyzed him with fear. He was 8 years old when his new neighbours Dana and Eric convinced him to tread hip deep into White Creek lake to pick up the abalone shells, telling him they were magical and possessed special powers. Craig was desperate to impress. He didn't make friends easily. Too heady, too quiet, "socially awkward" was what the teachers wrote. Gifted was how his mom translated it. Craig didn't notice the leeches at first. It was only when Dana and Eric couldn't stifle their laughter any longer that he saw them covering his ankles and inchworming up his calf. Stuttering and wailing in terror Craig begged the brothers to get them off. Eric finally pulled out a matchbook and started burning them off, one by one, putting a flaming match to each leech. They...

This was supposed to be good for him, solve all his problems, turn him into a beautiful human being free from anxiety and judgement, a zen freakin machine of bliss. Why does he feel like he's about to split in two? This can't be right. Rob is positive no human being is built to contort like this, all cirque de soleil up in his groin. The yogini in her strappy bra top and skintight lulus with her perfect upside down heart shaped ass is relentlessly upbeat and encouraging, gently guiding his hip into the right position, touching him in ways no woman has in months. If he wasn't in so much pain he'd have a raging erection. Fantastic, just what Rob needs to help him release into the pose. Oh man, don't think about release, don't look at her ass, that pefect ass. All this forward folding. It's enough to get him to class every day. Twice a day depending on the teacher. Bought himself an unlimited monthly pass. What he can't understand is why the classes aren...

There's a quiet sadness to her body, folded in on itself, chin tucked, hair parted and held hostage with a jewelled barrette and plastic comb. Rose is written on the side of her paper coffee cup in strident black sharpie, a reminder or a banner. She delicately picks away at her muffin, working her way through the body of it, leaving the top for last. Always delaying gratification. She still wears her wedding ring. It's been 7 years. She feels incomplete without it, disassembled. Her daughters have given up. They live in Victoria now. Rose tells herself that's why they don't call or visit. The time difference, the flights, her 300 square foot apartment. The money from the estate sale is long gone and disability doesn't afford much. The tea and muffin are a decadent treat, a splurge better spent on real bills and groceries but here amongst the writers and students, the sea of stroller bearing mothers, she disappears in full view. There's comfort in being invisible...

The woman has a baby strapped to her chest. It's one of those front pack sacks that you stick a kid in and it faces the world with all four limbs jutting out in every direction. Ferg lets out an audible involuntary grunt. He just doesn't get it. You'd think after carrying the thing in her stomach for ten months she'd want the relief of a stroller or something but no, she's strapped this poor kid across her chest like a bomb, a human shield that drools and spits. Different take on a camel. Crazy breeders. Why do people even have kids anymore, aren't they aware of the massive over population problems in the world? There's 7 billion on one planet, it's a bit much, by anyone's standards. Granted it's not like Ferg is going to be breeding anytime soon. Last girlfriend he had was in junior high school, Alicia Loring. Not like they ever really went out or had an actual date, more like Mark set him up with his girl's best friend and they became an it...

A cup of coffee, all Frank wants is a bloody cup of coffee. He doesn't give a shit where it's from, Sumatra, Peru, Ethiopia, who cares, it's not like he's the UN for cryin out loud. Just a freaking cup of coffee, black, no milk or cream or soya or what the jesus, almond milk. What the hell is that. Who drinks milk made from almonds? How do you even milk an almond? When did everything get so bloody complicated. All Frank wants is his cup of morning coffee to help shake off the bourbon fog. Hot and black so he can slug it back with his smokes. That's it, that's all she wrote. Coffee that doesn't cost him four bucks a shot. Whole neighbourhood's gone to ratshit since Jimmy's Place closed. Thirty two years Frank counted on Jimmy's for a decent cup of joe, corn beef on rye, bottle of Blue, Maker's Mark when he was feeling flush, and time on the table where he didn't have to hustle frat boys to get a game in. Easy living. Now these bloody hipst...