Waving Not Drowning

All Anthony wanted was a few bananas and some peanut butter. His kingdom for Nutella but he wasn't hedging his bets. He was slow going, still half in the bag from last night's commiseration session with Isabelle gnashing and wailing about Kev's new girlfriend. Anthony gets it, he does. Lord knows she put up with the Great Heartbreak of 'o8 with him. A solid year of despair and self loathing. Surviving the war. They forgot to get breakfast fixings and it's going on noon. His stomach was beyond rumbling, it was a full blown orchestra with kettle drums pounding. It's a fine line between nausea and hunger. He realizes the sound isn't emanating from his intestines but rattling the windows from College Street below. Christ almighty, the Resurrection parade. Thousands of devout Catholics lined up 5 bodies deep, celebrating the Easter holy days. For six blocks police cordoned off both sides of the street and locked down traffic. He'd never get out his front door...

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 wasn't feeling well but it was too late to cancel. At least in Greg's mind it was too late- and not the gentlemanly thing to do. He'd just explain why he couldn't shake her hand and would avoid any sort of intimate contact. Not to assume he'd be getting intimate, he wasn't that presumptuous. He's not a hop in the sack first date kinda guy. Who was he kidding, of course he was, given the right circumstance. Who wasn't, right? God, if any woman Greg met on a first date wanted to sleep with him right there and then he'd be so completely flummoxed he wouldn't know what to do. Greg liked the pseudo anonymity online dating provided. He could sculpt an ideal version of himself over days, weeks, months, while secretly trolling through hundreds of other profiles, stealing the best from other guys' identities. He doesn't do well with people. He lumbers and speaks slowly. His body is average at best assuming average means lacking grace and all sp...

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...

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 ...

Can you stop playing with the mirror? It's going to kill you. I'm gonna wake up one morning to an eviscerated red tabby and it won't be pretty. I have no idea why you keep trying to swing off that thing. It's not like it's even in motion. Then again, with a brain the size of a chestnut, what can I hope for? Oh, I'm sorry, are you napping now, is that the plan? Tearing up and down the carpeted hall then literally climbing the walls for the last 40 minutes tuckered you out? Hey, I know- why don't you rest for a while then round about 3, 3:30 am come and bound over my head while climbing onto the shelf above my bed. Don't forget to yowl non-sensically too. That would be awesome. Just so you know, I don't get more than a 3 hour stretch of sleep at any given time. REM? Pffft, who needs it. Deep, restorative, healing sleep? Overrated. Then- and this is great, it really is- when I have to get up an hour later, punch drunk with exhaustion and puffy eyed from...

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...

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...

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...

Just stand to the right, smile and hand out brochures, that's all Emily was required to do. If anyone asked her where the showroom was or how to get to the bathroom, she should point them in the right direction but under no circumstance was she to engage in small talk. That was not her job. Smile, stand silently, be beautiful. Alluring. That was the word used in the craigslist post. She could do alluring in her sleep. She had, actually. Thankfully that tape never saw the light of day. Could be worse. There was the Auto Show where she had to solicit men to fill in questionnaires concerning their driving habits. An exercise in keep away, avoiding incessant casual gropings and brush bys, the not so subtle come ons and outright lewd propositions. It's amazing what some men think they can get away with. Even in tailored trousers, a button up blouse and ballet flats Emily is a magnet for attention, men and women alike. It took her years to come to terms with her physical power and fi...

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...

Seventeen hours and thirty two minutes. Maybe more if  weather kicks in or the flight gets delayed. Then home. That's the plan. Two and a half months. Seventy four days, to be exact, but who's counting. Season's have changed, clock's have sprung forward and her trimesters have shifted. She has to let him know. Ethically there is no option, she understands this intellectually but Kelly's massive fear of confrontation overrides everything, including common sense and self preservation. Her entire life. Years playing flute because a saxophone simply wasn't an option. Fear of rejection, her need for approval at any cost, this defined Kelly's sense of self. Having a kid at her age, alone, with no partner is one thing but to willfully withhold that information, to purposefully avoid telling Stephen he's going to be a father- that's full on Jerry Springer. It's not like they're in a relationship, not according to Stephen. He made that crystal clear f...

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.

Two weeks til the bandages come off. She's been here before. This is the hard part, the next few hours, in and out of consciousness. Floating above the recovery room in an Atavan induced haze. At least this time it's just a nerve block or four. The spinal last time was a disaster, completely numb from the waist down, disembodied, powerless. Then the side effects- the spinal headache and projectile vomiting, mainlining straight morphine and oxy for 2 days until she thought she'd throw up the lining of her stomach.This is the last time. That's what the surgeon said. Mind you, he said that about the last three surgeries. Apparently her superpower is regrowing any and all bone removed from her body, at a ridiculously rapid pace. It could be worse, it could be terminal in some way. They could have to lop off a limb or find some inoperable tumour. After eight years of xrays and follow up she's waiting to see what side effects come her way. The irony. Oh joy. Then the atro...

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...

So much red wine. Dead soldiers litter the kitchen floor and drip  precariously from the counter ledge. Happy birthday to Ryan. Every year's a bloody miracle. He spends so much of his time trying to annihilate himself that making it to next weekend is never a safe bet. He can't even remember who was at the party. Janet, Su, maybe Rick and D, but Nat's still asleep on his floor tangled in last night's stockings so obviously she made it. It's his Jesus year. Never thought he make it past 27, the year all great players die. Not that would deign to compare himself to a Jimi or Janis or Jim or Kurt. Fuck, 33 is really old. It's time to man up, put on his big boy pants and deal with his shit. That's Nat's voice in his head. She's one to talk, a mess of tequila soaked heartbreak on the rug. Damn. Careful not to light the stove nearby or she may spontaneously combust. Christ, how did they get like this? East side piss poor wanna-be Sid and Nancy. He was goin...

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 ...

Oh, how I loved you, every single piece of you. I ached for you, dreamt of you, reveled in the way you smelled and tasted and delighted me. I became transfixed by the thought of having you, if only for a moment. The rush, the sensation of an overwhelming eruption of taste and satisfaction. Umami. Dripping down my fingers, spilling from the sides of my mouth, licking my lips, sucking every last morsel from my fingers. Then it all went wrong. The pain. Sleepless nights, doubled over, rocking like a child in the fetal position, knowing, deep down, that it was over. It had to be, for my own good. I kept trying to dip back in, just a taste; a friend with benefits, every now and then, trying desperately to convince myself it wasn't as destructive as it was. But I knew. My body was telling me- I had to let go. Walk away, kill my cravings. For you, your soft, sticky, sweet and chewy, cinnamony, lightly iced goodness. Oh gluten, you devil in my belly, why did it have to end like this? I thi...

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.

Vodka and soda with lime. Or lemon if you're out. Well, he was out. Scotty had been out for the last two hours and no matter how many times he reiterated that information, he was met with the same stunned stare. A full three second stutter of disbelief, a la Foghorn Leghorn. Some of them actually repeated the question. Multiple times. You're out of lime? You're out of lime. It's closing in on two am and this 40th birthday bash in the tony Forest Hill home has been in full swing since 7:30. The rich, white, beautiful folk are well into their cups. Five magnums of Ketel One, Grey Goose , 4 bottles of Patron and countless flats of Stella down, they're moving into wine now as all the glassware is dirty. Serving Rioja and Cab Sauv and a mystery Austrian white in champagne flutes and margarita glasses while Chef and his sous frantically clean  rentals in the kitchen. This is the gig that never ends. It's a contest to see who can drink the most and still stay charming....