Waving Not Drowning

Two more steps and he'll make the couch. Three if he shuffles. This pain, this never ending intense ache deep in his bones, radiating like a searing beacon of Hey Stupid, Way To Go. Feet. Dang. So many small bones, all jammed up, tight together, a perfect symmetry when everyone gets along but one unexpected twist and fall and bam, thanks for playing but this is where you get off. Such bad timing. Eight weeks of work coming up after a blissful, recuperative month off; now he has to figure out how to shuffle gracefully in a hidden cast on camera while pretending to be grounded, solid, whole. Easy peasy. Ha! And the itching, oy. The chopsticks and wooden spoons and modified backscratchers jammed down the cast. Inflate, deflate, elevate, ice, compress, release, oh my god why did this have to happen NOW? Sigh. Ah well, a hitch in his giddy up, a tilt in his hips, an even slower, purposeful gait. S'alright, s'allll good, what evaaaaah. This will wind it's way into the myriad ...

All her heroes were boys. Men. By default, not choice. She grew up watching boys play sports, tried to hone in and keep up with the bullies. Eventually she found her place. She threw a ball better than most of them. Isla was coordinated, creative, and awkwardly tall for her age. By 11 years old she was 5'9" with a size 10 shoe. She hated basketball, though. Volleyball made more sense but her heart lay in baseball. Hardball not softball. At first they refused: no girls allowed. It's too dangerous. You can't get around on the ball fast enough. You're too slow, not strong enough. You're going to get hurt. They would let her practice in pick up games, bury her in right field on a day when the occasional ball might come her way. But when Devin tore his hamstring and they needed her on second, Isla rose to the occasion, beyond even her own expectations. Everything suddenly made sense. Kismet, maybe. Her spatial understanding of where to field, how to work the bag, jo...

It really wasn't the news she was anticipating but then again, Loretta understands she should never anticipate anything. Ever. Expectations cause endless disappointment. Not the most positive of mindsets but Loretta knows from whence she speaks. Sixteen years of stasis in middle management,  two near-engagements; one long heartbreaking, slipshod divorce and five rounds of chemo later, Loretta expects nothing short of the unexpected. The first round had gone relatively well, as far as treatment goes. Three hours in hospital, then an easy day at home. Days two through six  knocked on her ass. Then she began the slow climb back to next-to-normal over the following two weeks. The frequency was wearing her down. At every three weeks, Loretta was familiar with the seesaw rhythm of up and down days. Right now was pretty freakin awful. The mass had spread, metastasized into her lungs; things weren't as positive as Loretta had hoped. This is the problem with expectations...

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. ...

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...

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...

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...

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 ...

It's not exactly a trot but it's definitely an affected gait. He steps purposefully with his toe down first, like a young colt or Great Dane Puppy. His rhythm is erratic, as if he's marking time to an off kilter metronome. A slight shift to the left with his head and his arms raise to hip level. A hop skip step to his right and a two-bob head shake. Then he pulls his chin to the sky, jerking twice then flicks back down, pulling on imaginary reins and resets his positioning. He carries a plastic shopping bag filled with dollar store purchases on his way to who knows where. Yet he walks with purpose; there is hesitation and peculiarity to his movement but no aimless wandering. A palsy or perhaps just different motor neuron pathways firing. A super secret connection of pulses and synapses speaking a foreign language. Beautifully complex and terrifically inefficient. There is nothing to do but give way and regard.