Waving Not Drowning

Oh dear, at what point do you think it's a good idea to plant yourself directly in front of me like this while I am trying to get my work done, hmmm? You see this shiny box of emanating light? Yes, this is why I sit here, day in and day out, tapping away on this little pad of raised squares, occupying my hands in such a way that it is impossible for me to spend any time caressing you. I know, it's entirely unfair on my part but really, we've been over this a thousand times if we've been over it once; you are in my way. This is not the time or the place for you to crawl onto my lap or lay in front of the computer and extend your paws onto the keyboard while I desperately try to manoeuver my way in and around your yowling, talkative feline self. Enough with the purring already. Regardless of how cute you are, and we agree on this fact at least, this is not the time or place for copious amounts of catcentric attention. I know, I am a lousy cat mother, selfish and cruel and...

She crossed the street and there he was. All dressed up, here on business, out with work, doing his thing, glad handing, networking, seeing and being seen. All the way from the other side of the country, he appears. No note, no text, no call. It was last minute, he says. I had no plans until I had plans. Plans that glaringly lacked inclusion of her on any level. They're not friends. Barely acquaintances. They were lovers; complicated emotionally, different levels of involvement and ability, desire to engage. She says hello. He's affable, his polite self, distant and guarded but never leads the conversation, remains firmly in response mode so in effect, unaccountable. Controlling, in his way. Wouldn't want to get emotional. Doesn't offer himself up nor make an effort to make time or space for her while he's here. Clear as a bell. She gathered he wasn't planning a call, she says. He counters with I figured you'd gather that. He offers up aphorisms of do yourse...

He told her to slow down. Be careful, he warned, you'll flame out. I know, I remember what it's like to begin. Best intentions easily go astray. You'll run out of ideas, get trite, repetitive. Trust me, this will all get very boring very quickly. She closes the browser. Elizabeth knows that the only way to quiet the demons is to eradicate them, physically. Walk away from technology, turn off her phone, shut down his lifeline to her brain and by consequence her heart. They're just words, she says aloud, to no one in particular. Huh. She sips her tepid four dollar coffee attempting to appear lost in thought while the fey beanpole of a barista tidies up the detritus around her. Every day, every single day she writes. Then she rewrites, then scores it, records it and posts. Every. Single. Day. Two hundred and six so far. A body of work that documents in detail life after the fire. Total immolation. Complete loss. A rather charred and warped tabula rasa burned into her body....

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...

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...

That was good, that was really, really good. I felt really good about that. It wasn't like, yeah, I'm gonna get it, but more like, ok, yes. Yes, I did a great job in there and I feel great about the work, and that's what really matters right? I mean, yes, the job would be fantastic, INCREDIBLE, don't get my wrong, I really really want it, I do. That room was filled with women, incredible, fantastic, phenomenal women and everyone and their dog is going in for it so...now it's  hurry up and wait. Just walk away and forget about it. Wipe the slate clean. I mean, have you heard anything yet? I know it's only been a day, but I heard callbacks were next week- right? Is that what you heard? Because maybe you heard something I didn't. Or not, whatever. I saw Isabelle there and Danielle and Julia and Elena. All the gals. The Usual Suspects, ha. Everyone is probably in consideration but I know, no- I mean, I feel rather- that I did a solid audition. Rock solid, in the...

It's been one of those weeks. Lindsay's been under deadline stress hell and Erik, well, Erik's just been under. More than usual. The 45 year old bottle of scotch he brought back from the working slash golf weekend is three quarters spent and their present plans for house hunting have fallen by the wayside. Things have been coming to a head for months now and just when Lindsay thinks she's reached the precipice, a subtle shift happens, so slight it barely registers yet somehow they manage to navigate themselves back onto the path. What path remains to be seen. That's the question, this gnawing obsession of a need for direction. It is slowly killing them, insidiously, from their insides out. Lindsay's been skipping periods, stress eating. A patch of hair has fallen out from behind her left ear. Alopecia areata her doctor says, possibly a stress related disorder, or maybe due to low iron or actually pulling her hair out, which Lindsay may be doing, unconsciously. S...

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 ...

Freefalling from space, looking at herself from above, completely out of body- staring up at his face, his emotionally detached, shit-eating grinning face. She reaches forward like she's riding an invisible bicycle with her arms and legs, dry drowning in air, willing herself desperately to wake up. Jude gasps and wakes herself up with her sobs. Suddenly she feels how overheated she is, soaking through her tank top, hair damp with sweat. The sound of blood pounding in her ears overrides the white noise of the fan. It's sweltering, the hottest day of May so far, hotter than she can remember. It's been months since she dreamt, at all; now the same dream, three times a night. She prays each time she falls back asleep it will be a different dream or nothing at all but there he is, over and over. He's cruel and unforgiving, angry, malicious. It breaks Jude's heart- she can't communicate; he taunts and laughs, dismissing her as if she never meant a thing. Jude can feel...

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...

On the first, third and fourth Tuesdays of every month Tracey finds herself in a familiar church basement meeting hall, sitting on a dented metal fold out chair, sipping on lousy but free percolated coffee from a styrofoam cup, topped up with two cubes of processed white sugar. On special days, like an anniversary or someone feeling generous, there are fresh doughnuts or a bundt cake instead of the usual variety of bulk store no-name cookies, like those weird ones with the stripes of black and white icing. Tracey avoids those unless all of the arrowroots and maple cream filled leaf ones are gone. Tracey never intended to make this a regular thing; it started 8 months ago when she saw the sign leading down the stairs on the way out of the bathroom. St Stephen's is on her ride home after Pilates class. She had to pee so badly that she stopped to use the church facilities. It was past dinner time, so when she smelled the coffee and freshly baked lemon loaf- it was a one year chip day ...

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...

Here, try this. No, really- you'll love it, I promise. Seriously, it's like, insane how good this is. I added some coconut milk, lemongrass and extra ginger and I swear- I SWEAR- it's like, oh my god, I can't even tell you. Here, taste! Ruth thrust her hand out in front of James, the spoon dripping with some sort of thai inspired saucy creation of the day. James hated thai food, abhorred it, after 8 years of back to back undergrads where he subsisted on Ginger take out and bad hot pots almost every second night. But he loved Ruth, so it was something he sucked up and muscled through. Ruth lived to cook. She had more cookbooks than people had literature or socks and underwear combined. Food Porn, she called it. Every morning  Ruth would pore over a different book, planning out the evening or weekend special. Nothing made her happier than hours spent slaving over a hot stove, dicing tubers and weeds, soaking and sprouting and dehydrating all kinds of foul, or tasteless, i...

Thursday afternoons are the worst. Simon can barely muster enough energy to put the kettle on let alone tend to the baby and the dog. Alex was teething now and a constant screaming, drooling, cacophonous ball of anguish. The dog on the other hand has finally reached his senior years and sleeps and farts 21 hours a day. Four days into the week with a day and a half to go and inevitably Simon falls apart, like clockwork. It's been five months of full time stay at home single parenting and Simon can't remember how he ever imagined this would make him happy or keep him fulfilled. He is the only stay at home dad for miles round, a complete anomaly in his sleepy suburban bedroom community. It's terrifically lonely. The yummy mummies ostracize him and the Filipino nannies and young British and Belgian Au Pairs don't even acknowledge his existence in the playground. Su wanted to stay home but she makes a full 45% more than Simon and her benefits are ridiculous. It only made sen...

Lindsay stared at the half drunk glass of white wine in the flimsy plastic cup and stepped back, her outstretched arm slowly retreating back to her hip pocket, as if burrowing into a protective warren, hiding from voracious predators. Except the danger was a 2003 Pinot Grigio Erik brought to Shelley's 40th and knowing how Erik gets at celebratory functions, this would be the first of maybe a dozen or so cups he would plow through over the course of the evening. If Lindsay tried to keep pace she'd be flat on her ass within the hour. Erik could drink. Maybe it was his Irish/Scottish/crazy Viking heritage that programmed it into his DNA because it was beyond anything Lindsay had ever encountered in a partner before. Sure they liked a good bottle of wine together but half a bottle on their first date over of a shared plate of curry fries at the local somehow evolved into two bottles a night, three nights a week in order to help them both unwind from their difficult days at work. Th...

If Robbie was a dog he'd most definitley be a Bassett hound. A very large, lumbering one with floppy ears and fin-like turned out paws and a nose as keen as they come. Cheryl loved Robbie, she did, but she misses the young, fit and feisty Rob- the one more akin to a Coon hound or German short haired Pointer. Active and alert, curious and on point. The man who would wake her up with great morning sex and then hustle her out to the gym or for a run where they would laugh and whinge and moan and end up at their favourite local indie roaster for smart coffees and splurge on a decadent pastry every now and then. Now that occasional indulgence is three times a day for him, the sex has all about disappeared and Cheryl can't remember the last time Robbie laced up his trainers let alone logged some miles. Recovery is hard, she gets that. It took nearly 12 weeks of solid rehab and physio to repair her achilles but she bounced back, she had to. Robbie on the other hand, took her down time...

Christ it's late. Damn- ow, fuck, damn, piss, shit.....who left the accordian by the door? Drew had had it with his housemates. Thirty four and living with a rotating menagerie of itinerant artists and gypsies: couchsurfing, subletting, disappearing in the middle of the night with three months back rent owing while abandoning their ailing geriatric cat type of housemates. Sigh. Why did he have to be the repsonsible one? Did you pick up toilet paper, Drew? Did you cash my cheque Drew? Can you not, cause yeah, sorry, it'll bounce. Yeah, ya see, it's about this girl and I lent her my rent money and well, ok, look, I'll get it to you but Thursday, ok? Thanks Drew, you're awesome, Drew. You rock! Six years in and he's the only original left in the house. He can list off the relationships that were born and died, sometimes an awfully painful death under that roof- Natalie, Melissa, Julie, Shane, the girl with the boy's name which his mom thought was just ridiculou...

Remember when I said I loved you? I whispered in your ear, my body draped across yours, hip to hip, ankles entangled, my mouth buried in your hair, smelling your skin. I ran my finger along your neck, across your collar and placed my palm flat on your chest, my thumb resting in the divot under your throat, printing your skin with my mark. I loved you then, in that moment. In the quiet. That restful place between dusk and dawn, between the night before and the morning after, the undertow of aching desire and tentative rest. The ephemeral, elusive, quicksilver seconds that consumed us so completely I spilled over, out of my heart. Messy, unkempt, staining the bed we buried ourselves in. I loved you then, in that moment.

Yeah? Well let me tell you something- when I said I was going to be home in half an hour, that means half an hour, not two hours or three or next week. I keep my promises when it comes to timelines. How can you not get it together to be on time??? Cathy was fuming, bits of spittle forming in the corners of her mouth, threatening to run away down her chin. George always found it incredibly feral, like a wild cat ready to tear out the liver of some poor wounded bird. But he knew better than to say anything in these moments. Oh no, he would just bow his head conjuring his best attitude of contrition and remorse, then nod knowingly, all the while reminding himself not to zone out because inevitably Cathy will at some point in the very near future reinstigate this argument as George will somehow through no fault of his own manage to yet again disappoint her. It was a fairly reliable pattern. Perhaps not the healthiest but at their age, they knew they were stuck. So they played it out, again...

Have you put on weight? Yeah, you've put on weight. You look good, more filled out. You were really skinny there for a while but now, I can see it, the weight looks good, healthier. Hey, do you ever see that guy? You know, the one down the street? That was weird, huh? I think about that every time I drive up the street, I think, I wonder what ever happened to that guy who lived on the street that you used to date. You were really upset, I remember. Yeah, that was rough on you, huh? That's when you got skinny, that's right. I can see it now, in your thighs, they're fuller, looks good. Funny, how you live on the same street and you never see him. Maybe he moved out of his sister's place- it was his sister, right? Probably got back with his ex girlfriend, didn't you say he walked out on her? Yeah, so he's probably gone crawling back. What was he, 36, 37? That's the age. He wants kids and figures he's invested 3, almost 4 years into this woman, it's ...