Waving Not Drowning

The neighbours must think she's killing the cat. An intermittent high pitched squeak that opens up to a full throated belch travels through the vents, like a goose in heat or an old man trying to blow his brains out through his nose. This was way easier in seventh grade. It's been 24 years since Reggie picked up a clarinet. She thought for sure she'd be able to run some scales, play a few ditties from memory but she fears she's bursting blood vessels instead. Two thousand dollars in facials, microdermabrasion and intense light therapy for age spots down the drain. The horn was on display in the window of a pawn shop on Queen East and in a flurry of nostalgia she shelled out $150 cash. Perhaps it's a just a crappy horn and would sound like an animal being impaled even if Benny Goodman was blowing it. The real question is what is she doing trying to recapture obsessions of her youth. She hated band practice. Reggie skipped rehearsal as often as she could fake a cold o...

Every year it's the same thing. Last minute panic. Late night runs to the big box stores, trolling the second hand joints, even scouring Craigslist for used costumes. Every year Don swears he'll be better organized. He comes up with the best ideas November 1st. Come the following October, he can't figure out where the time went. An interesting, unique costume idea for a 6'5", 28 year-old is harder than one would think. Don's vowed to never repeat the same idea twice. Well, Marla vowed. On Don's behalf. To be honest, Don could care less about the whole shebang. The free candy is awesome but he stopped trick or treating when he sprouted to 6'2 at 12 years old. Mrs. Hamm reamed him out as Frankenstein that year, calling him all kinds of unrepeatable names, accusing him of being an adult in disguise. No matter the protestations she steadfastly refused to believe it was little ginger Donny from three doors down. It didn't help that he couldn't remove...

Ohhhhh the way you melt in the mouth, the sweet chocolately goodness wrapped up in a soft textured oatmealy crust. Big juicy raisins exploding with sweetness, surrounded by the essence of cinnamon and clove, flakes of lightly toasted coconut, just dense enough to satiate but not so decadent as to push things over the edge, to that place where bliss slides into shame and regret. Still warm, flooding the synapses with feel-good endorphins, creating a moment of climax above and beyond what a cookie should be capable of providing. This is bliss. This is complete ecstasy, wild abandon, the total unleashing of one's true, feral self. Untamed, savage, beastly. Beware the path to carnal abandon, clear the way between Sylvia and her fresh baked, still cooling cookies. Three strides from oven to table is all she needs to capture her prey, the prize she so lovingly created, moulded, caressed, built with her own two hands. And the help of an obscenely expensive high gloss red Kitchen Aid stand...

I wanna rock with you, alllll niiiiiiight....dance you into the day- sunliiiiight. Wanna rock with you, allllll niiiight, dance the night awaaaaaaaaaay. Hank's eyes are closed, his head dwarfed by massive earmuff style headphones, cocooned inside the mellifluous sweet strains of early Michael Jackson. He does an awkward sort of jive, shrugging his shoulders towards his ears, up and down in time to the music. His face is split ear to ear with a lopsided, full toothed grin, brow furrowed as he reaches for the high notes. Occasionally he punches the air with an extended index finger as if he were dotting the i's in night and sunlight. Hank listens to this record over and over. He has it on his ipod too, but there's nothing like the warmth generated by vinyl. He's an analogue man. The record sleeve is ragged and dog   eared, torn near the center no matter how careful he is with it. The album cover is smudged with fingerprints- Hank gave up trying to keep his lp's in pri...

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 ...

It's the back of his head. The shape of his neck, how his ears sit on the sides of his skull. The way his spine moves, if it's fluid or locked; Zoe falls in love with the back of his body. A rather attractive guy gets on the streetcar or passes by on the sidewalk. She sees him check her out; she makes eye contact, then starts the checklist: could I love that neck? Do I see myself with those ears for the rest of my life? That back- rather rigid and held through the thoracic mid section, doesn't seem to have a lot of awareness going on. Probably not athletically inclined. Oh, wait. No, that would never do. He has no bum. Flat assed. Oh no. Nononono. I can't see loving that, no, not me. Another man sits down. He's directly across from her in the coffee shop, pulls out his laptop, plugs in his earbuds and starts to tap away, focused and easy, with a calm, zen-like energy. Zoe is intrigued. He gets up from the table to fetch his order off the bar and she sees it: the ba...

The crack has opened up again in the corner of her mouth. It comes out of nowhere, swells up and puffs out, splitting slightly every time she stretches her mouth wide, a nervous tic acquired as of late, a way to move the tension out of her face and head. Sela makes a face like a lion, or an oversized ventriloquist's dummy, mouth wide open, tongue protruding down her chin, eyes wild. Her tongue darts in and out of the crack, flicking at it, rolling back and forth over the swollen nub in the right corner, unconsiously, involuntarily like an iguana catching flies. It's stress, she knows this. Her body sends her warning signals then full on alarms. Can't sleep, can't eat, hair starts to fall out in clumps. It starts with her lips, though. This time she catches it early. Mainlines the vitamin C and zinc, magnesium to calm her nerves. Nag Champa burning in the living room. She shuts off her computer, turns off her phone. If she doesn't engage she can control her reaction,...

And on the first day of May, Evan decided to turn over a new leaf. He got up early, made his bed, fixed himself breakfast, cleaned out the guinea pig's cage and packed a bag, leaving plenty of food and water and a note for Leslie upstairs. "Hi Leslie, I'll be gone for a while. Not sure when I'll be returning. Thank you for feeding and watering Fred. I've left his food on the counter and money to cover future expenses. The info for the vet is on the fridge. Oh, please help yourself to the leftover cantaloupe and strawberries- they're organic. You won't be able to contact me by cel but I will check my email when possible. Apologies for the short notice but something has come up that needs my immediate attention." And with that, Evan turned off the light above the stove, checked the timer in the living room, washed up his tea mug and plate from his morning toast and grabbed his passport and spare credit card.  No time like the present to activate extra cr...

Just when she thought it was over, the phone rang. Again. Laura has no idea how she survived before caller ID. At least they didn't have her address. Yet. It was only a matter of time, she knew that, but for now at least Laura didn't have to live in a shrouded studio apartment with her blinds drawn, music low, whispering to the cat. Stirring instead of using her Magic Bullitt dream machine blender. Keeping things quiet. On the down low. Maybe cable wasn't a good idea after all. Late nights spent in the hum of the blue light, listening to pitchman after pitchman excitedly expound upon the wonders of all sorts of things Laura didn't even know existed let alone were necessities evidently lacking in her life. She needed these things, all of them. Expanders, shrinkers, gyrators, prettifiers, organizers, educators, thingamajigifiers. Peelers, ricers, shakers, boilers, steamers, grinders. And on layaway, pre approved credit, easy to make payments spread over the rest of her li...

Everything and then some, she just wanted it all, and more. Insatiable, unrelenting, intense. He couldn't keep up. Again and again and again. Normally, Brent was in the driver's seat. He was the one in control, from the get go, feigning aloofness, being all gosh golly gee, shucks woman, you are somethin else, while sizing up whether or not the lady in play was going to remain detached or emotionally launch an anchor into him. Brent always played offensive slide, answered questions with questions, mirrored behaviour while remaining emotionally detached. Completely self absorbed in the moment while rigorously not getting involved. He figured as long as he said one thing off the top he could behave any which way from then on and not be held accountable. But she was different. Demanding. Fully engaged. Wide open, completely present. Raw. Scared the pants off  him and turned him on to the nth degree. So incredibly powerful, physically. He'd fantastized about being with a tall wo...

She's allowed one more cookie. One more, not two or three, god forbid four- that would be the end of the world as Sharron knows it. It's a very big deal with her mom, controlling Sharron's cookie intake. Some call her big boned but really she is heavy, overweight for a young girl, what in the old days they would call husky. Sharron is completely obsessed with cookies. Peanut butter chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies to be exact, fresh from the oven, when they're almost too hot to eat without scorching off the roof of your mouth. Sharron peels one off the parchment and juggles it back and forth between her fingertips hand to hand, blowing on it until it's just the right temperature then she closes her eyes, inhales the nutty sweet chocolatey smell, and busts out in a grin from ear to ear. She tries to measure her bites- four is ideal but sometimes she gets greedy and inhales an entire cookie in two, or on a rare occasion, one and a half. She can't help it: the...

Aw man, crap, no. Nononononono....big exhale, that's right, just breathe out....Adam was having a minor coronory. He hadn't seen Jane in years. Wait, what was she doing back in town? That couldn't have been her, no. Holy guacomole it's a tofu inferno. Woah. Adam realized he had come to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk at 5 pm, a downstream barricade in the midst of the upflow of mad commuter traffic heading frantically towards the suburban trains. A domino effect of bouncing businessmen, briefcases flailing, suit jackets creasing, stacked up behind him. Sorry, sorrysorrysorry. Damn. Adam stepped flush to the tower wall, a pink hued shade of granite, still emanating heat from basking in the midday sun. He searched down the stream of bobbing heads and shoulders shuffling, trying to remember what Jane was wearing, if it really was Jane. That gait, the set of her shoulders, the way she created a bubble around her, even in a crush of bodies. She claimed space. Eight...

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...

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 starts in her groin. Flowing down her legs, all the way to her toes, and surging back up her spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, radiating like a hot molten core in her belly, throbbing in time to her pulse. It's like a stack of Marshalls welded to her sternum. Thunderous bass, screaming guitars, a cacophony of interwoven melodies. The sound shoots through her capillaries, bursting out like full-bloomed magnolias in an early spring storm. She starts to undulate in her chair, creating wave after full-body wave, slowly rocking her head back and forth, shoulder to shoulder, chin to her chest as her arms extend to the sky, fingers splayed, starfish reaching, clenching, unclenching until she propels herself up and out and onto her feet. This is what a volcano eruption feels like. This. Is. Loud. The sound emanates from every pore of her being, she is humming, every cell is pitch perfect. Two hundred and thirty eight seconds of a perfect storm of sound, a grand mal in motion with  a happy ...

Om Mani Padme Hum. Compassion. Or, Om, The Jewel in the Lotus, Hum!  Needled that into her skin, forever marking herself, one of seven rites of passage. Lots of moving forward colouring her landscape, some fading, others bleeding into the edges, all of them clear, concise markers of specific moments in her life. Some are beyond explanation. Over the years they have altered their course, and now represent something so far removed from their original intention she can no longer explain them to new lovers or curious ladies in the locker room. They are what they are. A road map in technicolour and black and white fading into muted navy blue. There's always a moment of sadness before she starts a new piece, a farewell to the virgin, naked skin soon to be irrevocably altered. Capturing this time, this place, this heart, this desire. Forever. Or until she sheds her skin and generates a new one, untouched, unblemished, and begins again.

Oliver spends fourteen minutes of every lunch hour walking to and from the dollar store. He has it timed within a ten second measure, depending on traffic lights and unforeseen obstructions, such as wayward contruction cones and temporary fencing.  Sometimes Angie the crossing guard tries to engage him in meaningless conversation which irritates Oliver to no end. Please do not talk to me, I have a very strict timeline and cannot be distracted, thank you. This is Oliver's well worn mantra. At least twice a week, generally Tuesdays and Thursdays unless it is raining, Angie tries to engage him on his walk. Oliver is easily annoyed. He knows this because his parents remind him of it repeatedly, every morning over his breakfast of cheerios with a sliced banana, 6 raw almonds and 1% milk in the yellow bowl with a blue rim. If the banana is too ripe or not ripe enough, if there are 5 almonds or 7, Oliver becomes inconsolable. Nothing short of a full court press from both parents can calm ...

She's been thinking about this bread for three years. Three years. It had been that long since she'd seen her father. Circumstance, space- they both give way to time. Now here they are. Sitting across the same table in a corner booth, his back to the wall. He hates anyone coming up from behind him. Makes him nervous, he says. She inhales slice after slice of hot, chewy, melt in your mouth fresh baguette, knowing she'll pay for it later. Gluten intolerant or at least that what she believes after reading that book and listening to that pod cast. It's a convenient excuse, either way, keeps her mindful of all the carbs she eats. Stupid, she thinks, but at this point she'd tried every other fad diet and hormonal rebalancing pill she could get her hands on. The bread just feels right. Good. Like a comforting hug, slathered in ripe extra extra virgin olive oil and salt. She'll just order a salad for dinner. That makes it all worthwhile, right? With dressing on the sid...