Waving Not Drowning

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...

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...

How could you do this to me- how could you? Don't just stand there looking down on me, with your mouth agape, like a fish dry drowning. You have irrevocably changed my life, you know that, right? You've killed me. I'm sure of it. I'm lying here crumpled, broken. I can't move my legs. I have no feeling from my belly down. This is terrifying. What have you done, what have you done to me? How did you not see me, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.  This hurts, you know. I know you can't hear me, I realize this now. But I am doing my best to stare at you through my half closed eyelids in this state of semi consciousness. I am trying to intuit this information to you through my slowly fading spirit. Every iota of my being is focused on trying to move, to speak, to scream or burble, any sound will do. The pain. Oh this is ridiculously painful and numbing at the same time. I was right there, beside you, behind you, ahead of you, in your rearview, your sideview, your windshiel...

She's sticking to herself like white on rice, that's how uncomfortably close this weather is. In a thin white dress shirt no less, soaked through from armpit to armpit so that the circles meet up across her chest. A boob circle of see-through cotton. It's so oppressively hot no one looks twice, for better or worse. Tara has forsaken any sense of modesty. Humping heavy plates in and out of a hotbox kitchen, nimbly skirting frantic chefs and melting busboys, elbow deep in dishpans, bodies slick with sweat, hair plastered to foreheads or bandanas dripping with moisture. A Dali painting come to life.  Order up! Bells clang, ceramic tableware clicks and clacks off the stainless countertops, three different languages weave in and out of the cacophony of sound, a constant hum of tension, like a bow being drawn across the highest fret of a violin, the hairs threatening to split and fray, coming undone like silk from the ear of a corn. It's amazing people can eat in this heat. T...

"Call it! Call it call it! Get on it- yup, yup, yup, you're there- you're there! No! no no no no- it's dropping, it's short! Damn! DAMN." Roger watches helplessly from right field as the pop fly drops mere inches in front of Cary's feet, then bounces and rolls right through Cary's legs and heads toward the ravine. Roger whips his head to the left involuntarily as if to dismiss the image. He clucks his tongue in disgust and frustration and is just short of throwing his glove to the field. A bit of a drama queen. That's why he gets stuck out in right field, especially against teams with  few to no lefties or pull hitters. Just to rile him up. Dennis makes sure to shuffle him around every so often so that he doesn't catch on and threaten to leave. They often come up short fielding a team so that's why the others keep Roger around. But boy is he loud. And cranky. Hostile, even. Physically threatening at times, which is really not appropriate fo...

Dawn's cat died. Three months ago. She's been keeping him in her studio apartment in the old 1960's single door fridge with a spring loaded fold down pocket freezer compartment that's normally one solid block of ice. When Gus finally passed away at 17 years of age, riddled with tumours, blind from cataracts, incontinant and incessantly vocal, Dawn was inconsolable. She tells people it was a psychotic break, a total mental, emotional breakdown. She stopped showing up for work, begged off commitments to her animal rights weekly potlucks and even missed the chanting pizza monthly get togethers with the Krishnas. That was the worst as she cherished the communal atmosphere and free vegan gluten free pizza and raw desserts. Plus, no one looked at her sideways there. Her two toned grey and red hair, braided as it was 40 years ago when she was a school girl,  her uniform of athletic sandals, an armful of bracelets, short shorts worn year round, with tights in the winter, and a ...

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...

I need you to listen. Lean in, that's right. Real close. I want you to feel my breath on your cheek, the heat from my exhale flooding your face with microscopic drops of moisture. That close, alright?Uncomfortably so. Because I do not want to raise my voice, you see? I want to speak slowly and quietly in order to impress upon you the importance of what it is I have to say. The profound nature of what it is I have to share with you, my friend. That is what we are, are we not? Friends. Close, intimate friends. I trust you with my life, this you understand in your soul, I know this. So right now, right this very second, I need you to hear me. To aurally comprehend the communication I am having with you. Put that cigarette down. It's a filthy habit and makes you weak. That's right, weak. You heard me. I love you, my friend but you are slowly, deliberately and recklessly poisoning yourself and all those around you. I will no longer tolerate it. Not around me, nor in my house, on...

There really is no other way but straight through. Paul could take a left but that would pull him so far off his chosen course that he'd end up hours behind. Days, maybe. The scenic route is awfully tempting though, especially since the alternative is mind numbingly flat and boring; at this rate stimulation is key. He's been nodding off for the last few hours and jolting himself awake with blaring satellite dance music, windows rolled wide open and copious amounts of glow in the dark energy drinks. Coffee stopped working back in the eastern standard time zone. Not much farther now; 400 kilometres to go then a final 20 or 25 winding through the downtown core proper. If he heads to the coastal highway, he'll add at least another hour. Tempting to pull off at the point, unhook his board and paddle out for a while. To the island even, camp for a night. Maybe never come back. Forage, make do. Build a shelter, light a fire, dig in. Disappear. Start over, once again. If you asked ...

It's a waiting game. She's made it through the first phase. Apparently her results are "acceptable" to move onto Phase Two. Then there's Phase Three, but she's confused as to whether Two and Three will overlap or run sequentially. Either or, the faster the better. It's the not knowing; waiting to learn if her body is "acceptable" on all counts. Lyne asked her today to find out about a blood match- that way they can see if they're even compatible for donation but when Stevie inquired, her transplant co ordinator said it's actually a tissue match, only done once the rest of the tests are underway. Now she waits for a CT abdominal scan, chest xray, stress echocardiogram and a GFR, or renal scan. Then she moves onto a psych evaluation before meeting with the Nephrologist because they really want to make sure she's emotionally and psychologically stable enough to donate an organ. There are questions: What if something goes wrong? What if a...

Sliced right through the side of his thumb. Nearly nicked the bone. Great, Aaron thinks. Instead of  a 40 mile ride as planned he's gonna end up sitting in emerg for hours waiting to get stitched up. Awesome. He spontaneously decides to repair the torn screen door to the back landing and bam, right into the bone. Box cutter meet thumb. Should've clipped Harley's nails last week and then he wouldn't have shredded the screen. Love that cat but man, right now little kitty mittens for the bugger sound like a great idea. Aaron is bleeding all over the place, his BMC kit now streaked with red brown blotches slowly leaking through the spandex. Great, now he has to get stains out of his jersey- probably not what he should be focusing on at the moment but he's partial to his man, Cadel. That's an image: fully kitted out and off to hospital. Knee high argyle compression socks and all. At least he'll stand out in triage. This sucks. Aaron can not believe how lousy his ...

It's late. Far too late for her to be up. Five hours, maybe? Not enough sleep but at some point the red wine and baba ganouj took over from the desire to crawl into bed. She survived it, though. Eight months of dread, knowing that this day would inevitably come and she'd be inundated with all kinds of reminders that he was really gone. A day for him and he was no longer here to celebrate or be celebrated. Her first instinct this morning was to call him at home but then she remembered. Every day, it's a re learning, a remembrance of what is no longer here. The new normal. Still a daughter yet now an orphan. Jacquie tried to console herself with the fact that at least she didn't have to suffer the annual ritual of yet another family style restaurant rotisserie chicken dinner with dear old Da to celebrate Father's Day but right now at this very second she would give anything to be sitting across from him in a naughehyde booth complaining about how the fries used to be ...

Greta is not looking forward to this conversation but it is happening whether she likes it or not. The mere thought of confrontation gives her all-over hives. That nauseating gut-drop where you feel like your insides are falling out through your pelvis? Yeah, that's what she is feeling right now, like she's nearing the top of the 90 degree drop on one of those insane new fangled roller coasters that are designed to scare the living shit out of you. In through her  nose, out through her nose. Deep cleansing breaths. Dammit, where's the tequila? I mean, really, that's what I need, she thinks. No, no, this is a time to stay stone cold sober and focus on what I want and how to impart that information without getting inappropriately personal or ringing big old bells that cannot be un rung. Un rung? Huh. Is that even a word? Okay, okay....Greta continues with the pep talk, the interior monologue of a varsity cheerleader, channeling her best Deepak Tony Iyanla Mandela Rumi sel...

The way he brushed her hair from her forehead, the lingering kiss of a finger drifting slowly down her neck, tracing the line of her collarbone and resting every so fleetingly on the rise of her left breast. Her heart raced to catch up, frantic to burst through her ribs, to be held in the palm of his hand, lifted to his lips and devoured whole. Three weeks, 4 days, 13 hours and 36, 37, 38 minutes since he dropped her off the edge of the earth with two small words. Three syllables, devastating in their simplicity, piercing like a hollow core bullet ripping through tissue and bone, exploding every cell of matter in it's wake. Cannibalizing her sense of self, the knowledge of who she was in relation to him. Of another. To be left, discarded. Unwanted, unwarranted in one's desire, wanting. Bereft. Forlorn. Early morning foggy sunrise drenched in misty rain and dewy greens surrounding the abandoned pergola overlooking the mountains cresting beyond the stretch of train tracks rising ...

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...

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...

Drowning in sheets of never ending rain, walls of water coming at them from every direction like a spin cycle on high. Umbrellas pop, hats are ripped from their heads, sneakers are soaked through, feet waterlogged and wrinkled, like wizened old apple dolls. Their mission is to find and purchase affordable yet stylish rubber boots in an attempt to staunch the soaking, at any cost. Well, any cost up to $30, since neither Nancy or Loretta have new boots in their budget. Nancy is kicking herself, having left her fancy assed pink rubber boots at home 600 kilometres away. This day trip into downtown is turning into a bit of a bloodletting financially. Day passes have given way to cab rides and alongeés in coffee shops with sugar fueled desserts while desperately praying for socks to dry out. Short of kicking off their shoes and wringing out the fabric, they're doing everything they can think of to dry out. Up and down the Main, searching for the right pair in the right size that are $19....

She wouldn't let him be who he was. Suzanne is so meticulous and rigid in her space that he felt  unwanted. Too messy and disorganized, too dynamic. Jory asked if he could have his old space back but Karyn had made her home there now and wasn't about to move again. She'd refinished the kitchen floors and resurfaced the cabinets and hooked up a portable washer. He did end up finding a really great apartment, a gorgeous 5 1/2 in the Plateau that came with appliances and had a great little garden with direct light. Rare here. More importantly, he can build his art there and make a joyful noise without feeling like a child being scolded by his mother. Strange how people suddenly become un-engaged. Jory tries to remember what it was that pulled them into each other's kinesphere, spinning tight circles in a rapidly increasing rhythm until they spun out completely, adrift in solar systems universes apart. Light fades. Meaning distorts. Truth wins out in the end, however discom...

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...

Three weeks ago this would have been unfathomable. Kristine is now sleeping through the night, no nightmares, no insomnia. Showering daily, making meals for herself, actually eating them. Gone are the soggy half-finished bowls of cereal sitting stagnant in the sink. If she never sees another bag of tortilla chips again she'll be a ok. He called and all of the sudden all that anger and bitterness, the reams of sadness and depression went away, disappeared into the ether. Then- and this is the best part- she stopped caring. About any of it. She let the calls go to voicemail. Days would pass before returning his message and even then, she was brief and to the point. Things had shifted. Kristine didn't know how or when exactly but the letting go had taken hold. Cravings for real food and social contact flooded her nervous system. A familiar desire to get up every day and make stuff happen had reappeared. For once, there was no second guessing. She even weighed herself at the gym, c...

In the pit of her stomach it sits, like a half baked potato, starchy and raw, undigested, heavy. Today's the day, she can feel it. A big ol' ball of anxiety has made her digestive tract it's home which can only mean one thing. Something bad is coming. Or something good. She can't differentiate anymore, all she knows is change is a comin'. Her life is like a bad country song, cheatin and lyin and boots a knockin with bad boys and pickup trucks with gun racks and bourbon mash and whiskey sours. From eastern seaboard Ivy League to middle of America; small town, red neck, Christian small c Conservative, lost somewhere between the Blue Mountains and Pensacola. After three days of riding, winding through $29 Dutch Inns, skirting hurricanes in the Carolinas, she turns her phone back on and waits. The apple appears, the circle spins, then she enters her passcode. Searching for a signal. She's in. Roaming for sure, eating up data she can 't begin to fathom how she...

She said what? Are you kidding me? No, no way- that's just insane, I can't believe she thinks she can just SAY that to you and then walk away, nuh uh. You go after her and you TELL her, that's right, you tell her what's what and that nobody, I don't care who she thinks she is, gets to speak to my sister like that. Or better yet, you let me at her. That's right. You tell me where to find her and I will rip her a new one and make her apologize. Who does she think she is, talking like that to my sister. MY LTTLE SISTER! Does she know who you are, I mean, does she know who I am? These kids- huh, I know, right? I was young once too but you don't share the things she told to Mark and Craig and not expect there to be consequences. Fuck the higher road; mess with you and you mess with Big Sis from Hell. Just don't tell mom and dad, alright? This is between us. Sisters. We got this. Fucking Ainsley. I know she's your friend and all but she's an idiot. As ...

He packed a bag just in case. You never know, somewhere down the line he might have to make a move and he wants to be ready. Scott's biggest fear is not being prepared. Missing the moment, being left behind, lost in translation somehow. Scott's dad ran out on them when Scott was two, said he wasn't cut out to be a parent which left Scott the man of the house. That was Joan's favourite phrase: "Looks like it's up to you, Man of the House. You're gonna have to pull your weight around here if we're ever gonna get ourselves out from under." He was 6 when he started making dinner and doing laundry; 8 when he mowed the lawn and bought the groceries. It was only the two of them but it was a lot for a kid to handle, especially the burden of expectation that Scott somehow represent the masculine ideal in the household. His voice hadn't broken and he'd never been laid by the time he was driving and banking and learning how to manage a household. Joan...

If you ask Lena, she'll tell you: she sets hard boundaries. That means saying no and sticking to it. A resolution that has come about after too many years of being the yes-man to everyone. Lena is the gal you count on to get things done, any day, any time, any where. Fast, efficient and with absolute discretion, like no other personal concierge you'd ever meet. Consistently on point. Lena is extraordinary at whatever she sets her mind to. Regardless of whether or not she wants to do said task or is actually engaged or fulfilled in any way, be it emotionally, intellectually, or socially. She's a  a woman of action, who sits in the eye of the storm and finds clarity, calmness and resolution, at any cost. Which is why Lena's personal life is an abject failure. Eight months ago a sudden call found her halfway round the globe on what should have been her 3 year anniversary with Tye. Oh, Tye. He just can't seem to finish anything he starts. A mess of ideas and projects an...

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...

Suddenly, like a freight train pulling into the station, wheels squealing, this immovable weight comes crashing down on her, enveloping her entire body. Her organs hurt. Or is it her back? She can't differentiate between the pounding in her head, ears, chest, legs and stomach. Dysrhythmic, cacophonous, consuming. There is no comfort here. She tries to roll over, coax her cells back into a restful sleep but something triggers the gag reflex in the back of her throat. This is not good, this can not be good. If she breathes, just tries to focus on deep, cleansing breaths-no, wait, bad idea. Through the slits of her barely open eyelids she reads 5 am on the clock radio. Must Keep Sleeping. She's a kid all over again, imagining that this is all a bad dream; when she wakes up it will all be sunshine and fairytales, rainbows and kittens, and back to her old, active, healthy, take charge self. It hurts to roll over. Struggling to throw off the quilt then the duvet and finally the top s...