Waving Not Drowning

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. ...

She makes him grin. He makes her smile, then a sad ache reverberates from her heart and travels out the ends of her fingertips, shooting invisible tendrils of longing across the continent reaching out to reattach themselves to the core of his being, his soul, his desire for her, as if they had never been pulled apart. Loss is a funny thing. She surfs waves of emotion trying to catch the top of the curl with precision timing so she can ride the wave in for hours, revel in what seems like days, until it dissipates into a foamy brine on the shoreline. On days she can't catch the wave or gets sucked into the undertow and crashes onto the rocks below, tossing and turning in the roiling surf, those days take forever to recover from. He's been gone for months, but never really out of her mind. The wake is half over but she lingers. It's too soon to say goodbye yet way too far past welcome home. She'll pick up a book, put on a record, stroll through the streets of Chinatown and...

Her scars poke out from under her bikini, crescent shaped trails curving alongside each hip, dotted like braille, telling the story of Christine's new hips. It's deceptive. Her youth and vigour belie a lifetime of debilitating pain and compromised mobility. She's funny, hysterically so; a double-yourself-over, laugh-til-you-cry-and-snort-then-end-up-on-the-floor-begging-for-mercy funny. A clown. Literally. Christine has an entire tickle trunk  of costumes, props and wigs. To her kids, as she calls them, she is Sparkle Susie, Princess of Unicorns and Bullfrogs. As a child Christine didn't run or play the way her kids do with her in her drama art camps. Injections, braces, medicines, trial after trial after experimental test group defined Christine's youth. Autoimmune inflammatory disease with delayed onset stenosis of facet joints and femoral acetabular impingements culminating in osteoarthritic symptoms. Her bones fail her. Her joints are angry, uncooperative. At 23...

On the fourth floor of a five story ancient walk up deep in the bowels of Chinatown, she climbs out of her single bed, scattering the dust on the linoleum as her feet hit the floor. She pads the twelve steps out her room, through the galley kitchen and into the cubby of a washroom. A sink so small she fills her hands to wash her face then douses herself while leaning over the tub alongside it, so as not to spill water all over the subway tiled floor. Various Chinese male voices can be heard barking at each other from above and below, tones shifting, guttural stops and moans; she can't tell if this is a good thing. The F train rattles overhead sending delayed vibrations up through the foundation. Sirens buzz on and off, cutting in and out; a jacked up Escalade rumbles through, stereo shaking the shampoo bottle perched on the narrow window shelf behind iron bars facing the world's smallest tub. She likes it here. Small enough to cocoon in but not claustrophobic. She feels safe he...

"You gonna post that one? yeah? What are you gonna say- you should say like, Benny finally meets someone age appropriate, ha! Wait, is it the one with her in the red dress? That's just crazy, you gotta post it. Hey- tag Benny in it. Oh, and David and Alan, Shannon and Ashley will go nuts!" Nathan is slumped across from Josh, texting away with thumbs like lightning, massively oversized watch sliding around his soft wrist. Boys weekend in New York and they've documented the entire gong show on facebook and twitter, hashtagging the victors and spoils. "Are you on wifi or are you using your data? You're gonna get hammered with roaming fees, you know that right?" The weekend in Vegas cost Nathan an extra $400 in data charges, most of which he rolled into the expense report. Josh and Nathan have figured out a way to write off their weekend exploits under the guise of research and development. When they're able, they rope in Benny, David, and Alan and wreak...

Whenever Cheryl sees a parent with a young kid, like a 3 year old toddler, she thinks to herself man, that's heroic. It's bloody fucking heroic, is what that is. There's this tiny little person clinging onto their dad like a koala bear as he straddles her across his hips like a casual sack of groceries. Nonchalant, all easy-like. It blows Cheryl's mind. There was a time when her ovaries would have exploded but now they're all shrivelled up and useless. That's what she tells herself.  Physiologically it's not true but she envisions her womb as closed for business right now. Psychically it's as if she's hung a sign that reads Under Renovations, Please Be Patient. Whatever it is, she's reading as unapproachable, beholden to none and Not Available. Hence the sleepy ovaries. If  Emmet had his shit together Cheryl thinks the two of them would have made exceptional babies. He was the only man she ever envisioned breeding with. Ever. A lot of near misses...

You only get one first time. One first kiss, one first love, one first heartbreak. The first job, the first car, the first home, the first kid, the first  fight. The first make up session that leads to the beginning of the first step forward into the first part of the next phase in your first grown up, accountable adult relationship. That moment of realisation is a first, too. Your first trip, your first show, your first train/plane/ bus/ car/ pony ride. You can't un pop a cherry, un pit a peach. Your first failure, first loss; the irrevocable damage caused by the first betrayal that turns each and every subsequent betrayal into a number increasingly greater than that monumentally iconic First. The first time you cause someone deliberate, earthshattering, soul crushing pain. Intense shame, overwhelming gratitude. The first of the last goodbyes. First miss, first reunion, first communion. First aches and pains, first forgettings of any new firsts because slowly, steadily, you've...

Wayne used to write bad cheques for pizza. Then he'd be chasing down overdraft payments with more credit and skirting bill collectors. A ten dollar pizza would end up costing him 60 bucks when all was said and done. Didn't matter that it was fantastic pizza- no starving artist can afford a sixty buck pie, no matter what the occasion. Sure he had a job now and two more gigs in the can. Hell, he can't go for coffee now without someone saying, hey, you're that guy! Aren't you that guy? Or Wayne's favourite, hey man, didn't we go to school together? Topped only by tell me what you've been in. Wayne's always polite and does the nod and smile but every now and then some guy gets in his face and after five minutes of badgering Wayne eventually tells him to fuck off. He doesn't care if some tabloid picks it up or someone tweets malicious bullshit because truthfully, Wayne's not that big a deal. There are days he wishes he had made better choices- fin...

On a hot, humid, late spring evening close to sundown, the moon hangs heavy in the east three quarters full surrounded by a shadowy fog, filtered in the slowly darkening indigo sky. A bell sounds, ching~ching. A cyclist rolls by while three adults surround a mid size sedan, doors ajar, one packing a sleeping toddler into the backseat as the trio plays out a languid, elaborate goodbye after an enjoyable evening of barbeque and home made beer. Ivan's latest obsession is local IPA's. The small converted basement in the war era bungalow has become a makeshift brewery, hoppy and yeasty, overflowing with bottles and funnels, numerous batches of experimental blends and a graveyard of guitars in various states of function. Ivan's not much of a drinker. He considers himself more of a chemist, a creative scientist in the world of brewmastery. From 9 to 5 Monday through Friday Ivan works the service desk in a local chain retailer of musical instruments. He repairs guitars and other st...

Something about the timbre of her voice gives Pete a rash. That itching he gets at the back of his throat at the beginning of an allergic reaction, this is how he feels whenever she comes on the radio. Mary's voice is the aural equivalent of tree nuts and strawberries for Pete. Not a good thing considering the public radio station he listens to religiously has moved Mary over to the morning show from 5:30 to 8:30 am. The one upside is that she only does the traffic report; it's timed to ten minutes past the thirty and the hour so Pete can physically remove himself from the sound if he's in a room or if he's fast enough, mute it entirely. Still, he is plowing through his Benadryl which is making him rather sloppy at work. Coworkers wonder if he's developed a sleeping disorder. Maybe he's high from the night before- with Pete, no one can really tell; and as no one can see his hive-covered esophagus, Pete's not entirely convincing to his coworkers. He's tho...

Old ghosts rise from their graves at the most unexpected of times. Wendy upgrades her phone, from her old beloved 3Gs to the newest, soon to be obselete model. Upload, download, backup, and there they are. Pictures. Videos. Their life together, encoded in bits of data. Files locked away, buried on her hard drive, disguised, encrypted, almost forgotten. With a single stroke of her finger every iota of her being is overcome with the physical sense memory of him, palpable on the screen in front of her, crystalline sharp, tangible. Them. Together. Candid, intimate moments, for their eyes only, painful and raw, full of the best intentions, the most generous of expectations. Pure desire and lust, burgeoning, all consuming love. And texts, reams and reams of text messages, with more pictures and films, none of which will survive the transfer. Sadly ironic how the most communicative part of their relationship will disappear forever, dissipate into the ether. It is untransferable now; like the ...

How can someone be that ignorant? Beth is beside herself, shaking with fury, literally biting her tongue until she begins to taste that metallic sting of blood in the back of her throat. Thinking about things while standing in the checkout line, replaying the last three days over and over in her head, waiting to buy three new tea towels to replace the ones now burnt to a crisp along with a new mop head and three bottles of Lysol. This makes Beth shake and hum out loud, much to the disturbance of the woman ahead of her in line who shoulder checks with a look of curious irritation. Beth is wracking her brain- had Karen always been this filthy? When she stayed with her last year in Tahoe, Beth learned that Karen's idea of cleanliness was not on par with hers but then Karen flushed the toilet and took showers.  At least Beth thought so at the time. Karen's visit has turned Beth's apartment in a toxic waste zone. Twice Beth has had to clean her own toilet of crap sprayed all ove...

She's lost the map. It was around here a second ago. Ok, maybe two days ago or so but still, it's not like she threw it out. It's small, but noticeable: laminated, mutlicoloured, flexible. That was the point of buying it, so it would fit into her pocket yet fold out into something large enough to navigate by. That's the third thing she's lost in a week. Misplaced, hopefully. If everything happens in threes she's topped out, won the trifecta. Why is it the simple things are the most confounding for Ally? Pack a bag, write a list, fold the laundry. These things paralyze her when they go even slightly off center. She's doing better now, even Jordan thinks so. The CT and the meditation, the yoga and painting, all of it seems to be helping. Ally knows, though, she's simply built this way. There is no wrong, no right, just this. She stumbles and falters, begins again or changes focus completely and starts anew, somewhere, somehow, in some way else. Her own dir...

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 ...

Barney's an old dog. A hound mix of some sort, Peggy doesn't know what kind exactly, but he's been the one unconditional male in her life for the last 5 years. No contest there. At first Peggy thought adopting a dog would be a sure fire way to meet men. Especially an older, more chilled out senior dog, reeking with character and approachability. Visions of dog park romances, random encounters with cute, eligible, dog loving men out strolling with their own socially well adjusted and just as attractive dogs filled her with excitement. The possibilities! The reality fell far below her expectations. Late night emergency runs after Barney ate a pound of butter, pot of lentil stew and half a pan of date squares; or the 3 pairs of running shoes chewed up beyond recognition and the constant sweeping and mopping and vacuuming of hair and mud and drool weren't highlighted under the "pros" section on the adoption form for a reason. Still, Barney was a solid, loyal, albe...

It takes, what, about twelve hours to get to Tennessee from here? Yeah, I think that's right. That's what the google map says so I mean, there's going to be three of us driving right, so Jeremy says he's good to drive straight through but I think if we split it between the three of us with maybe two pee breaks for gas and snacks we'll be fine. I mean, provided everything goes as planned, no major foul ups or traffic disasters. I'm not a fan of the Long Island Expressway so any way we can avoid that will be just peachy. Plus, if we leave just after rush hour we should be clear of all the major congestion getting south of the city. I think that makes the most sense, no? Carmen stops to jam a few more sweet potato fries covered in spicy peanut sauce into her mouth and washes it down with a slug of her Blanche de Chambly. You can take the girl outta Montreal but she'll find her microbroue and poutine substitute where ever she goes. Carmen's never been south ...

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...

Jesus, that was beautiful. The way you moved across the floor there and just kinda swung around the corner of that table. Fabulous, woman. Carrying that tray with 10 sleeves of beer- now bring some of that my way, would ya? Ya, that's right, I'll have another. Or four! Dwayne's cackle quickly gave way to a lung shattering cough, with a low rattle to rival his Fat Boy permanently parked in the front stall. Cherry is now leaning against the bar rail, rolling her eyes, snapping her nicotine gum, sighing heavily. Every night it's the same thing: Dwayne and his mouth. Running like a leaky tap, one tired, creaky pick up line after another. If she wasn't so desperate for cash, Cherry'd be long gone. Back on the road, heading south, all the way down to New Orleans. It's been too long; she wasn't getting any younger. Hard to make ends meet in a two bit tavern with desperate regulars that feel entitled to slap and tickle without the accompanying tip. Cherry can ha...

Today is Trudy's favourite day of the year. The other 364 are good, if you like that sort of thing- banal, day in, day out, get up, go to work, come home, make a meal or two, go to bed, wake up and do it all over again kind of days. But today is Mother's Day. Although Trudy isn't a mother, she is an aunt and a daughter and a sister and a surrogate mom to all of her friend's kids. She's the crazy aunt everyone pours their hearts out to; the one her friend's kids turn to with stories of heartbreak or embarrassing questions about boys and bodies and the difficult truth on life and why their mom's are so harsh. A confidante, secret-keeper, truth-teller and comfort food maker. Truthfully, most weekends and statutory holidays are filled with the people in her life that love her so, but oddly enough it's on Mother's Day that Trudy beomes a bona fide star. A raucously celebrated, boy-I-wish-you-were-my-mom kind of day. The flowers and chocolates, the brunche...

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...

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...

Jennifer lies. She lies like a rug, like a third grade student with stained purple fingers and blue tinged teeth who claims she did not eat that blueberry pie. That deep dish, warm from the oven, baked fresh for Mother's bridge night pie. Yet Jennifer's not in the third grade. She is a grown woman, married to a grown man, mother to an eight year old son, minder of one dog, three fish and a hamster. She is high functioning, relatively happy, decidedly well off and in above average health. Her hobbies include yoga and pilates, the occasional spin class, a monthly book club and improv comedy on Tuesday evenings with 11 other women. She has a BA, a Master's Degree and could have been a lawyer but she chooses to stay at home with her son instead. And she lies. As well as being an upper middle class overly educated mother, wife and social butterfly, Jennifer has a secret. She hides this from everyone. Her family, her friends. It gives her an air of mystery, untouchable-ness. She ...

Mickey and Mark are identical twins, born into a family of ancient parents. A last ditch attempt at conception and they hit it out of the park, a real two for one special. Mickey and Mark are impossible to tell apart, even their parents confuse the two, hence the colour coded wardrobe. Red for Mickey, blue for Mark. Matching, of course, throughout their childhood but even now as adults they find themselves more often than not wearing the same outifts by happenstance. Perhaps it's that secret twin ESP spidey sense that they are rumoured to share. Regardless, Mickey and Mark are wearing the same skinny tobacco coloured chinos, Tom's slip-ons with a white t shirt under a casually wrinkled shirt. Together they are a mirror image walking side by each down the corridor, past cubicle after cubicle. They work together at McCann and McCann, a marketing firm specializing in on site bilboards and placards, primarily on University campuses and in pubs. Occasionally one twin covers for the ...

"I'm drowning here, Dad, I'm going under and I can't get back to shore. I can't, I can't make it, Dad, I can't do this without you, you gotta help me, you gotta throw me a line here." Zach is pleading, eyes watery, lip quivering, hands shaking. Jake is helpless when his eldest son gets like this: frantic, desperate, anxiety ridden and manic. It's four am and Jake is struggling to stay awake, let alone stand up. "Come on, Zach, calm down. Why don't you crash in your old room and we'll talk about it in the  morning. Your mom and brothers are asleep- Arnold wakes up for practice in two hours Zach, you gotta lemme get some rest or I'll be useless to everyone."  Zach paces, like a caged animal, shaking his hands like he's trying to rid himself of imaginary water. Two months he lasted this time. A good facility, showed signs of progress even; the phone calls were more managed, the family visits controlled, civilized. Jake liked ...

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,...

Get your face outta my face- step back, you fur footed, screeching, shedmonster. Get off. Get off! Getoffgetoffgetoff! Crikey, I swear, thank god you were unbelievably cute as a kitten because right now you're making me nutty. Really? Wow, really, you're going to eat that- DROP IT! Oh, don't make me chase you- no- damn. Seriously! Ok, it's your funeral. And my $2000 vet bill- DO NOT EAT THAT! Great, there goes the day, waiting for you to puke up a four inch strand of rainbow coloured fleece. You're one in a million, short bus kitty, really, one in a bloody million. Here- here! Here you go, have some treats! That's right, come on kitty, uh huh, that's the way...ok, do not make me lift the bed frame off the floor. I will drop this, it will make a loud noise and you will bolt and we will play stupid cat and mouse- literally- up and down the length of this house for twenty minutes and today is not the day, alright? Ok? Alright? Ok? Come on, kitty- Just Drop It. ...

My favourite, absolute favourite moment of the night, of the whole night was when you started crying and laughing and shrieking all at the same time. Right? That was awesome, you were so surprised, you were like, amazed weren't you? Ashley yammers on, 3 glasses of Rioja deep, while knawing on a mini maple glazed bacon blt. Marsha steps back, letting one of the 3 black clad identical wait staff push through her, traying individual lamb shanks overhead, while another one offers them chimmichuri flank steak on bamboo skewers while yet another one follows behind to pick up the detritus. The noise is cacophonous. Ashley keeps talking, laughing, shrieking herself, while Marsha stands stunned, still reeling from Mickey's surprise proposal an hour earlier as they stood in the driveway, waiting to enter her parent's house for her younger sister's 28th birthday celebration. This is chaos. This is not what she expected. Marsha and Mickey spoke of marriage but she didn't think ...

There's a faint birthmark on the outside of her right hip, a small, quarter-sized landmark, shaped like Africa. In summer months, it grows darker, deeper in colour, and the edges become more defined. Chris refers to it as the disappearing continent. Winter nights as Alice lies on her side, Chris runs his hand alongside the curve of her bum, extending his fingers as they drop into the deep valley of her waist, resting under her lowest rib, the tip of his index finger almost reaching her belly button. He memorizes the placement of Africa in relation to his pinky finger as it wraps around the crest of her pelvis. Like disappearing ink, it's faded to a faint shadow, an old tattoo whose ink is being reabsorbed by the body. Physical sense memory helps him mark it's placement: his hands know their journey. Alice's scars are a roadmap on her body. The thin line under her chin from falling off her bike at 7 years old, trying to ride with Duke alongside on his leash; matching rou...

That night when we were twenty one and you had left Patty and I left Mark and we borrrowed your mom's van and we drove as far as we could go on seven dollars and forty five cents worth of change we cobbled together from various coat pockets, bottoms of purses and couch cushions, and we drove as far as we could til we reached half a tank of gas and ate soft serve ice cream cones with a chocolate dip, wandered ancient general stores, spoke secrets out loud and promised each other the world- that was the night you asked me to marry you and I said yes but really meant but not now because I was young and we were crazy and I was terrified of the reality but in love with the romantic idealism and thought that yes would somehow magically solve our life's problems, which seemed monumental and all consuming and would irrevocably change the rest of our lives. That night, that's the night I play over and over in my head, every day, every minute of every day, since I saw you on the stre...

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...