Waving Not Drowning

He doesn't want to leave the house. As soon as the sun goes down John wants to dive under the covers and sleep for days. It's in his DNA, he tells himself. Winter's coming, must hibernate. He peels himself off the couch, steps over the cat spread eagled on the throw rug, dodges the stack of magazines he meant to read last week, month, year and finds himself assuming the position: bent over at the waist, peering into the bowels of the fridge, searching for some semblance of edibles among the rows of condiments, rotting thai leftovers and jars of raw nuts. How can people live in Alaska, not seeing the sun for 9 months of the year? John's trying to make an effort. He signed up for a two week introductory trial at the hot yoga studio thinking he might meet some women and get his energy flowing. Or inverted, or something. He's managed to make it to two classes with one more day to go before it expires. It's 8 pm. There's still time to catch a movie, an open mic n...

There's a huge hole in the floor behind the bar where the softwood planks have worn through or rotted, Kylie can't tell. She's become adept at sidestepping it unconsciously, a pattern her body has memorized in order to safeguard her from falling clean through and landing in the cellar storage room downstairs. The joys of working for aged hippies in a legendary much loved restaurant on the hip strip of town. Had she known what she was getting into Kylie would have stuck with the fine dining gig on the east side but no, this was such a great spot, such an iconic hangout and the location, well- a five minute walk from home, so it seemed like kismet at the time. Dominic comes screaming out of the kitchen waving an 8" chef's knife, drunk, 4 in the afternoon, the lazy hour of the day between shifts. Thankfully only staff are hanging about. Bob, one of the owners, a dead ringer for James Taylor circa the Carly Simon years, only pushing 60, reigns him back into the kitchen...

It falls to the floor before she can grab it, tumbling through her fingers and bouncing across the tile before cracking and leaking onto the rug in front of the toilet. Too much glass in here: glass shelves, glass bottles, glass mirrors. Her heart stops as the scent rises up into her nose, wrapping itself around her lungs and lining the inside of her belly. Her lips swell and palms sweat, she starts to tear up and get weak in the knees. Alex. All over her, inside of her, on top of her, away from her. He insisted she have her own scent. He wanted to buy her perfume so they spent days trolling drugstores and department stores, spraying, sniffing, coughing, choking, laughing, hmm'ing and haa'ing trying to encapsulate their connection in some sort of alcohol infused watery potion. Late nights leaning into her neck, he'd lift her wrist to his face and breathe her in, all the way down to his toes. They'd compare little paper swatches, over breakfasts of coffee and half-pans o...

It's called the playroom. Mike has no idea why, it's not like there's any playing going on down here nowadays. Mike's mom is burying herself in stuff. Since dad died she's flat out refused to deal with the reams of paper and magazines, decades of dad's old journals, mail order catalogues, piles of tools, stacks of books and three full sets of outdated encyclopedias. At some point, she went on a christmas decoration buying binge, so there are random rubbermaid bins spilling over with garland, plastic reindeer, wooden creches,  half cracked blown glass ornaments and fibreoptic glow in the dark mini wreaths. It's beyond Mike's scope. He knows she needs help, a professional organizer or something, he's seen some shows on tv. They bring in someone to help you get everything sorted and cleared out. Then inevitably, the poor person ends up buried alive in the same junk months later. It's all so depressing. Mike's first drumkit, which she and dad bou...

Kerrie keeps an ancient empty bear-shaped glass peanut butter jar on her desk and fills it with bits of paper. Torn up scraps of old scripts and print outs, those free post it notes from charitable foundations that show up uninvited in the mail, a passive aggressive attempt to guilt her into a donation. Every day she writes down what she is grateful for, a good thing, a happy thing, something that makes her heart sing, and stuffs it into the jar. Kerrie then screws the cap back on tightly, capturing moments to prevent them from disappearing into the ether. A lightening bug lantern of ephemera, harnessing positive thinking. At first it was easy. Within a week her jar was overflowing with the minutiae of day to day occurrences: a long, low sunrise, happy dogs on the bike path, unexpected encounters with an old friend and spontaneous coffee catch ups. Clean sheets, dark chocolate, fresh dates with walnuts. Found coins on the sidewalk, an interesting article, great books,  a new haircu...

There really is no other way but straight through. Paul could take a left but that would pull him so far off his chosen course that he'd end up hours behind. Days, maybe. The scenic route is awfully tempting though, especially since the alternative is mind numbingly flat and boring; at this rate stimulation is key. He's been nodding off for the last few hours and jolting himself awake with blaring satellite dance music, windows rolled wide open and copious amounts of glow in the dark energy drinks. Coffee stopped working back in the eastern standard time zone. Not much farther now; 400 kilometres to go then a final 20 or 25 winding through the downtown core proper. If he heads to the coastal highway, he'll add at least another hour. Tempting to pull off at the point, unhook his board and paddle out for a while. To the island even, camp for a night. Maybe never come back. Forage, make do. Build a shelter, light a fire, dig in. Disappear. Start over, once again. If you asked ...

Lean into it, just drop your shoulder, plant your feet, turn your core on and lean into it. Trust that you'll find your balance, alright? You can do this, you know this- you've trained your whole life for this moment and you've got this. You Know This. Kaelea takes a deep breath, trying to quiet her nerves. Her palms are shaking. She closes her eyes, runs through the routine in her head for the umpteenth time. Visualize, visualize; she replays the sequencing over and over, mouthing affirmations and positive self talk. She's read that all of this helps, it really works. It could be the edge she needs to give her the tenths of a point that mean the difference between gold and silver. Or worse, not medaling at all. The years of sacrifice, countless hours of practice, recovery, of being tethered to the gym, missing every dance, every party, every sleepover; spending weekends in cars driving to meets and tournaments and being billeted in strange houses with stranger people. ...

Just a quarter mile up the road you'll see it- the most beautiful sight you'll ever set eyes on. The way the ground swells up in a purple blanket of flax, gently swaying like a spent sailor knee deep in his cups. Oh this countryside, this road: wide open yet all encompassing. Close your eyes, drive for an hour, and you're still dead centre, hugging the yellow line. Where the sun sets high-fiving the moon, a cosmic baton pass of grandiose heights. Big sky country. Up and out and still, there you are. A speck of dust, a miniscule, microscopic organism waving in the wind while the clouds roil and rumble shades of orange and pink not found in your box of crayolas. Hot and dry and unforgiving. So cold skin splits and tears, breath crystallizes before the thought has left your mind let alone your mouth. So much space, so many miles of great wide open. Keep going, then go further. Eventually mountains, the ocean and shoreline appear but the same thought skips over and over, stuck ...

Is he going to be there. She wonders about that, about running into him in a city of millions of people, of countless neighbourhoods and boroughs, hidden pockets and sharp corners. Is he even still there. It's been a long time coming; years after the two and half years where they promised each other every day they would be here, in this city; partners in crime, living through shared lessons in life and love and loss; encompassing everything, enveloped in each other's beings. If he is still there, will he be hidden or in plain view. How will she find him. She'll turn around on the platform, crossing from one train to the next. He'll be climbing a stairwell as she descends; crossing the street, ordering a cup of coffee, wandering in Central Park, singing in Washington Square, sipping cafe au laits in Greenwich just like they planned when they were one, when he was her person and she was well met. She tries to forget but he keeps coming back to her, unexpectedly, in dreams...

Anthony liked big girls. Tall girls, the taller the better. Anything over six one, six two and he was over the moon, literally. Preferably blonde, and preferably amply endowed. Big breasted, wide hipped, full lipped, amazonian goddesses. Occasionally he'd settle for a shorter girl- five eight, five ten- which blew Mark's mind. Only in Anthony's world would that be considered a short woman. It's not like supermodel tall, bombshell built blondes were over populating their world. The odds weren't in Anthony's favour, which Mark tactfully tried to explain last Friday night at the pool hall. Besides, they seldom explored outside of their neighbourhood haunts so by now the two or three suitable options had been well worn and played out. To be frank, Mark was tired of talking around the elephant in the room. There's only so many excuses he could make to Anthony for the lack of action. He had game, oh boy, did Anthony have game. He could charm the paint off the wall...

He was at her door. Oh god that was quick. Gimme ten, she texted. He had been down the road, three blocks  away. She hadn't showered, it was that kind of day. Four in the afternoon and she was rolling around in lulus. It had been months since they'd seen each other, let alone spoken. They'd been intimate in ways well beyond lovers and friends. It was easy, always had been, perhaps because they both knew the limitations. Unavailable to each other in ways they couldn't shift, they created a new world just for them. Months grew into years, and their new world succumbed to old world ways, the cyclical pattern of lust, love, despair, and death until it eventually flamed out. Now here he was at her door and she could feel the atmosphere shift. Barometer rising. Resurrection. The smell of him, the way his hand feels in hers, how their bodies interlock in embrace. That moment. All it takes is a moment and she's back in the rabbit hole, somersaulting, cartwheeling through, s...

Shaking off the cobwebs. Not literally cause that would freak Angie out. Waking up in a strange place and wondering how the hell she got here. Again. One long road trip, night after night, anonymous hotels, motels, load in, load out. Hello Patchogue! How you doing,  Pawtucket! Weeks turn into months and big things like money and sales don't matter anymore. She misses her cat. She even misses G, her on-again off-again lover who right now more than anything she wishes was on again this tour. Careful what you wish for. It's hard to say no, having drank the kool aid as an impressionable, ambitious young artist. Always take the gig, go where the work is, it's all about the work, it's the only thing that matters. At the expense of everything else. No home, no family, no partner she can call her own. Emotionally, socially stunted. Even her cat prefers her neighbour. She would too really, seeing as he's home and remembers to change the litter every day. She's missed eve...

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...

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...

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...

Fifty five minutes for a 5 minute errand. He just would not shut up. Heather was leaning out the door, bracing it open with her foot, about as subtle as a truck, trying to leave the store. He would not stop talking- about himself, his career, his pure potential. Heather's mentally calculating how late she's running for her 1 oclock appointment, trying to manifest a way to transmogrify herself via an imaginary telelporter to get to Chelsea in time.  Just Shut Up. An hour ago she was mildly smitten. He was a doppleganger of her ex, same ginger hair, dimpled chin, light blue eyes, perfect bow shaped lips, rare on a man. After twenty minutes of monologue all resemblance evaporated. His hands were small, nail beds torn and ragged, his neck showed premature signs of aging and a distinct lack of physical activity in his life. What was she expecting from a computer IT guy, not like he rips himself away from his motherboard to bust out a quick ten miler or 5 hour ride. All she needed wa...

It's all about you but you knew that. Eventually, at some point, you would bleed into my words since you completely consumed my mind and body. Wrapped up in my skin I wear you in sheets, like a cannibal, layered over my bones, a new fangled fascia knotted yet stretched thin. You left but were never really here. I thought you were but then the light shifted and suddenly you were far, far away. My body reverberates in open chordings, familiar sounds I can't replicate without you. Tangled up in a confusion of memories, woven into the tendons and ligaments, contorted by time and distance. A receiver left hanging from it's cradle, a dial tone underscore. Hang up already. Disconnect.

It was quite busy, close to rush hour but not yet the height of insanity. The line up was growing behind him, cascading between two self serve kiosks, spreading out amongst the throngs of commuters ebbing and flowing up and down the escalators. He had his wallet in hand, his worn leather briefcase slung over his shoulder. His beige trench was well loved and of another era, but perfectly suited to his old world, professorial character. He ambled up to the kiosk, slowly, with purpose. The screen was placed at an odd height- he's a tall man, but not overly so at 6'2", a little stooped in his third age, but he wondered if the screens were designed for children or a much smaller society. It brought to mind Pygmies in the rainforest for some reason. Random. It was a touch screen, brand new technology to him but he surprised himself by adapting to it with relative ease. He pulled his debit card from his billfold, inserted it into the machine and leaned in, stoop shouldered and no...

He brought the cigarette up to his lips. Du Maurier, king size. Squinting, he blew the smoke rings over her outstretched fingers. She hated the fact that he smoked but it was all about picking her battles. Yeah, he was 5 inches shorter than her, but it was kind of hot. Turned her on. Guys would hit on her when they walked down the street together, oblivious to the fact that his hand was entwined with hers. His biker boots gave him an extra 2 inches but it was all the same laying down, nudge nudge, wink wink. They both had alcoholics in their midst. His father, the self-made entrepreneurial terminal disaster. Always moving on to the next big thing, always leaving everyone else behind. Her entire family was off the rails. They ran a grow op out of the basement where she played tennis against the unfinished concrete wall. Broke two of the fluorescent lights once, and panicked that she'd be grounded. They were still kids themselves, eighteen, nineteen. Every breath was all consuming. T...

Hey, you remember Danny in Grade Seven? Man, I'm blanking on his last name, something with a C, I think, I dunno. I just keep thinkin about that time we all stayed late to paint that mural and Mr. Johnson told us half way through we had to white it out and start again. Poor Danny man, he just lost it. You don't remember? He started hyperventilating and stomping his feet, screaming, No! No, no, no, no, no! Threw his paintbrush on the floor, ripped off his painting coverall. Scared the crap outta the poor Grade Four kids. Mr. Johnson tried to settle him down but Danny flipped out when he touched him, started screaming this high pitched wail. I never hear anythin like it, you know? Gave me goose bumps. Then Mr. Matthews came in and tried to quiet him down and that's when Danny bit him. Right through his shirt. Punctured the skin on his forearm- we could see the blood start to seep through his white sleeve. Then all hell broke loose and Michelle and Natalie started crying, me a...