Waving Not Drowning

Joe's hitting the bottom of the bowl. Twenty minutes and the candy is gone. Floor's littered with wrappers, hands sticky with waxy chocolate. Bit of a train wreck. All for naught. Hustling home, desperate to find something resembling a pumpkin to carve, nearly slicing to the bone as the dull paring knife slides off the gourd and into his finger. Joe wonders why he tries so hard. It's expected of him, maybe, he doesn't know. All the hustle and bustle at work, everyone dressing up and gorging on cookies and cake all day like it's the end of the world instead of the end of the month. Head is raging, there's a migraine coming on. Too much crap. Sugar and coffee and cheap sparkling wine. Carly's wedding shower, with a Halloween theme. Terrible idea. The wedding singer meets the walking dead: who'd want that as an omen for upcoming nuptials. The weather's terrible. Unseasonably warm with hurricane force random gales of wind. He checks the candle in the blo...

The neighbours must think she's killing the cat. An intermittent high pitched squeak that opens up to a full throated belch travels through the vents, like a goose in heat or an old man trying to blow his brains out through his nose. This was way easier in seventh grade. It's been 24 years since Reggie picked up a clarinet. She thought for sure she'd be able to run some scales, play a few ditties from memory but she fears she's bursting blood vessels instead. Two thousand dollars in facials, microdermabrasion and intense light therapy for age spots down the drain. The horn was on display in the window of a pawn shop on Queen East and in a flurry of nostalgia she shelled out $150 cash. Perhaps it's a just a crappy horn and would sound like an animal being impaled even if Benny Goodman was blowing it. The real question is what is she doing trying to recapture obsessions of her youth. She hated band practice. Reggie skipped rehearsal as often as she could fake a cold o...

As she walked through the kitchen she took a look at the pile of breakfast dishes in the sink, sighed, doubled back to the circular red mat, rolled up the sleeves on her thumbed yoga jacket and threw on the tap. Do them now or deal with them at the crack of ass in the morning. Why she didn't do them this morning confounds her since she found the time to read 300 pages of her book while searching for knee high brown boots online and cruising recipe blogs for cinnamon twist churro-like donuts. Those are priorities. Dishes, pffft. Unexciting. Until 8 pm rolls by and Kerri realizes how much of the day she's pissed away. Anxiety creeps in like a parachute deflating on top of her, swallowing her whole. Gotta do more, gotta be more. That's when she clocks the teapot, barely warm, filled to the brim with the after dinner herbal digestive tea she boiled off an hour earlier. At least she can drink lukewarm tea. Tepid coffee, not so much. Either ice cold or steaming hot with a thick c...

She's hunting poems. There's a taste in her mouth, sweet and salty with too much heat, words on her tongue, burning, bubbling, sparking, exploding. She loves his words, devours them whole, tearing  pages with her teeth, ripping out spines with her bare hands. Destruction in the consumption. Hers, all hers. Her body littered with the detritus of fonts and fiction pulped paper cardstock and ribbons. She is drooling ink dripping antonyms from the corners of her mouth. A pool of punctuation covers her feet leaking through her toes as she marks a path of poetry with footprints in italics. Her body shakes semi-colons leak from her fingers as she throws her arms overhead shooting exclamation marks into the fading autumnal sky. Ellipses litter the ground where she stands, marking a path to the bench where the tattered broken shells of his writing abound Spent depleted used. That's what words are for, she says. To be used abused articulated manipulated. Word...

Thirteen bottles and six cans at five cents each gives Val ninety five cents. One more and she's got a buck, enough for an apple and three caramels from the penny candy jar. Why it's still called penny candy baffles Val. She even argued the point with Mrs. Han one day saying it was false advertising. Paying ten cents for a piece of candy labeled a penny is highway robbery. Not to mention a cruel tease. But Val shut up when Mrs. Han threatened to ban her from her store. Since its the only depanneur that still sells candy by the piece and carries bananas and green apples, Val backed off. She should check the back garbage can on the football field at recess, see if some of the high school kids or maintenance guys threw away their bottles. They're always drinking those expensive rainbow coloured sport drinks, chugging them back like water. Their stupidity, paying four dollars for something you can get for free from the tap. Grab an apple and a few caramels and voila, energy and...

The appetizers hadn't even arrived yet. They spent twenty minutes poring over the menu, in between long pulls of their gin and tonics, deciding what to order, which plates to share. The waitress made a huge production of returning to their table a third time to see if they had finally come to a decision. Sara was really looking froward to the mango sweet pepper slaw. She didn't anticipate the arrival of Daniel's ex replete with their cranky 3 year old hanging off her hip, the two of them screeching at the top of their lungs. Sara was mortified; Daniel was apoplectic. If he was embarrassed it was hard to tell amidst the name calling and laundry airing in the middle of the restaurant. Sara no longer craved pad thai. This is why she hates being set up. On paper Daniel comes off like a swell guy. Kind, competent, functional. Emotionally available, which for Sara is an accomplishment in and of itself. No more Come Here- Go Away boys. Marcia mentioned he had a son, which Sara ded...

He doesn't want to leave the house. As soon as the sun goes down John wants to dive under the covers and sleep for days. It's in his DNA, he tells himself. Winter's coming, must hibernate. He peels himself off the couch, steps over the cat spread eagled on the throw rug, dodges the stack of magazines he meant to read last week, month, year and finds himself assuming the position: bent over at the waist, peering into the bowels of the fridge, searching for some semblance of edibles among the rows of condiments, rotting thai leftovers and jars of raw nuts. How can people live in Alaska, not seeing the sun for 9 months of the year? John's trying to make an effort. He signed up for a two week introductory trial at the hot yoga studio thinking he might meet some women and get his energy flowing. Or inverted, or something. He's managed to make it to two classes with one more day to go before it expires. It's 8 pm. There's still time to catch a movie, an open mic n...

Every year it's the same thing. Last minute panic. Late night runs to the big box stores, trolling the second hand joints, even scouring Craigslist for used costumes. Every year Don swears he'll be better organized. He comes up with the best ideas November 1st. Come the following October, he can't figure out where the time went. An interesting, unique costume idea for a 6'5", 28 year-old is harder than one would think. Don's vowed to never repeat the same idea twice. Well, Marla vowed. On Don's behalf. To be honest, Don could care less about the whole shebang. The free candy is awesome but he stopped trick or treating when he sprouted to 6'2 at 12 years old. Mrs. Hamm reamed him out as Frankenstein that year, calling him all kinds of unrepeatable names, accusing him of being an adult in disguise. No matter the protestations she steadfastly refused to believe it was little ginger Donny from three doors down. It didn't help that he couldn't remove...

She is in flux more than ever shedding skin dropping leaves in burnt orange rusting red aging golds. Preparing to hibernate so she can bloom again in verdant greens. Full round buds bursting with life hope potential. An ever expanding canopy of growth. Life begets life. The past withers on the ground turning to mulch. Food for thought. Penetrating her roots feeding her core nourishing new ideas like vines winding their way through cracks in the walls creating a canopy of shade respite dripping with ripe berries abundance for all.

She bought the jerry cans at Canadian Tire. No one looked twice. Three bright red plastic cans, a box of wooden matches, rags for the garage and she checked out without so much as raising an eyebrow. She'd taken inventory, kept notes, photographs. Anything left that held value was packed away in the back seat and her trunk. The broken doorframe, stains on the carpet, the burnt out element on the stove, she wouldn't miss those. Nostalgia no longer lives here. He left when the sheriff came, hopped into his car and peeled out of sight. She spent two weeks uncovering evidence of him in the most unsuspecting places. Razors in the back of drawers, socks buried in fitted sheets folded in the linen closet. He took the beer and bottle of scotch. Single malt, twelve years old. Left the tequila. She filed  a report, went down to the station. They took her statement; she could barely write it out her hand was so swollen. Sheriff said the order was for 500 metres but if she broke it of her ...

Bob and Donna don't quite know what to make of her. She's not Christian which makes them nervous and wary. That's the first thing they ask her as they gather round the oak dining table for breakfast. Ella arrived unannounced with Casey late the night before. Casey was a troubled young man when they first met him at the week-long retreat. Filled with demons, broken and in need of healing. A tragedy, really. Bob and Donna felt it was their divine responsibility, nay right, to lead him back to Jesus Christ, their holy saviour. Donna took him aside two days in and told Casey he was cursed, his whole family were cursed and destined to live out a life of great suffering and punishments unless he accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Saviour and learned to atone for his many sins, sins he wasn't even aware he had committed but which were cast upon him by the shortcomings and failings of his family; godless, adulterous, thieving heathens. That's how curses work, she explain...

The table is set for ten. It's tight but they find a way. A few minutes of musical chairs, some cross table rearranging and voila, everyone is met. They celebrate earlier than others simply because it's easier to get the gang together outside regular hours. A rag tag group of self employed creatives, two single parents, a writer, one city councillor, two real estate agents and a landscaper. It's the tenth anniversary of their first official gathering. Some years they're a few shy of the whole lot but not this year. Chris and Carla swapped weekends with their respective exes and Donny, Jim and Shawna rearranged their family and work plans to make this fly. Ten years is a big deal. They were so young when they first met, at least that's how they see it. A decade of accountability to each other, through hell and high water, marriages, divorce, births, death, career changes and relapse. The amazing thing is that they've stayed together. A splinter group that evolved...

He walks by her house every single day, sometimes twice if his neighbour needs him to walk her dog. He could take a different route but Carrie's house is situated exactly halfway between his house and the hipster dog park. Bongo gives him the perfect excuse to casually stroll and linger in front of her bay window while the pup noses around the hedge by the sidewalk where Larry surreptitiously drops some kibble. The snacks give him an extra two minutes, maybe more, where he can position himself in such a way that if Carrie is in the living room or the upstairs bedroom, even down the hall in the kitchen with the drapes open, he can take her in. Revel in her wonder. She's incredible. His heart dances in his chest, speeding up so fast that he's sure he's having an attack. A few deep breaths, mindful counting to 10, and he's back in control. Until she tilts her head and her bangs brush across her forehead, obscuring her face from his view. He panics, jockeying for a clea...

She can barely open her eyes. They're slits now, like a snake. Her skin is hot, red and tight, stretched across her face like a hide being cured. The antihistamines are useless. Two packages of Benadryl and she's in a stupor with no relief. It's day three and something is making her swell up like a balloon about to burst. If she drank forties like water and mainlined salt like sugar, maybe this would make sense. People recoil from her on the street. Thankfully she loves oversized sunglasses and large brimmed hats because when the allergist's receptionist saw her even his jaw dropped. "Oh my, you are an emergency, aren't you?" The doctor figures it's environmental, something in the air or walls where she's living. Julie can't believe it. After everything she's suffered through now she has to move. Again. Benny leaves her high and dry with three weeks to find an apartment. There was a note on the fridge. He packed up the bike and was heading ...

The pain came out of the blue like a pointed stick impaling her through the right side of her face. She wasn't even eating anything hard. No nuts or un pitted olives and dates. No rock candy. Overcooked reheated rice pasta with pesto, kale and mushy chickpeas. A soft, chewy mess of green that melted in her mouth until suddenly it felt as if she chomped down on a pebble. The searing pain right in the centre of her largest molar. Yesterday she finally went in for a cleaning. After a year and a half of  procrastinating Felicia bit the bullet and went to her dentist for the full meal deal only to get a perfect bill of health. Her hygienist praised her good work and attention to detail. She felt like an 8 year old with the prize winning cake at the bake sale. So proud. Now she's paranoid. Did something shift during all of that scraping and poking? The instruments are so invasive- high pressured water sprayers, grinders, scalers. Maybe the dentist poked a hole in something or shifted...

They set up a skype date so they could discuss their next move. With the time change and opposite schedules getting an actual conversation happening was more convoluted than string theory. So ridiculously complicated. By the time Alistair is home from work Zara is fast asleep. On days when Z is up at the crack of dawn, it's 3 am Al's time but he's either a few glasses into his wine and poring over a script or exhausted and too stressed to sleep. God forbid he's entertaining company.  It took a while but Z knows nothing good comes from late night-early morning texting or phone calls. If he's up and sees her online he can call her, thank you very much. The last thing she needs is to skype him and see some other woman tangled up in his sheets over his shoulder. Sheets she bought and broke in with him on Easter weekend last spring. What a difference four months makes. His contract got picked up and the work is pouring in. It's biblical in scope. Work begets work beg...

Eleven am and transit is humming along. She's timed it so she hits the pocket beween the morning crush and the late lunchtimers heading back to the office after a three martini mixer. The heat is rising and people are overdressed from the cool, crisp morning. By mid afternoon it's downright balmy, definitely not October weather. She peels off her jacket, unwinds her scarf but leaves her cap on, only because her hair is now completely soaked to her forehead. Hat hair is too much to pull off right now, given her circumstances. With her sunglasses she's rocking out the celebrity incognito vibe. The beauty of big cities, where no one looks twice. The aesthetician said two days tops then it'll settle down. She feels like Groucho Marx. The whole point of waiting for cooler weather is that it's easier to camouflage. Sweaters, hats, scarves, heavier makeup. The twenty degree heat only increses the swelling and flushed face. Plus the groupon expired at the end of the week. S...

Eva skiffles into the kitchen, doing an improvised side stepping booty shake, singing at the top of her lungs to Hold On blasting from her computer. Old school rhythm and blues quells the melancholy. How can one stay down when rockin out to Sam and Dave? The kettle screams to life, undercutting the horns then rapidly overriding them, a shrill alarm. Eva pirouettes and hooks two fingers under the handle intending to slide it off the flame and onto the stove but her sock foot catches a sticky spot of maple syrup on the kitchen floor, a leftover from her gluten free buckwheat pancake disaster of the morning, and she trips into the counter. Her fingers slide off the kettle knocking it sideways, sending it crashing to the floor. Boiling water gushes out at a furious pace. Eva jumps back and crashes into the fridge, both feet flying out from under, landing on her tailbone in a pool of boiling liquid, scalding her hand and leg halfway up her left shin. Talk about ass over tea kettle. Stunned ...

Mornings are Ali's best time of day. She's clear and focused, energized and ready. The hour before she falls asleep is dynamite. Ali makes lists, dreams grand schemes, makes promises to herself that when she wakes up she will make monumental progress, seize the day, completely explode with productivity. She is omnipotent two whole hours of the day. One hundred and twenty minutes, give or take. If she lingers in bed too long, haphazardly hitting the snooze alarm for the fourth time, it's over. She's done for the day. There goes the morning window of pure awesome. At this point Ali thinks why bother, she's passed her peak, missed the moment, blown her shot at carpe'ing the diem. She just needs a minute. Or 40. She waffles and wavers, slowly rolling into first gear. By noon she'll kick it into second. Third if it's sunny outside. After caffeine and sugar and copious cat memes and celebrity eye candy on the internet her tidal waves shift. Around three pm she...

It's in the rhythm of her footfalls, a steady, cyclical, soft flapping of rubber on asphalt, step by step, breath by breath. The first twenty minutes she struggles to settle down, settle in, relax and find her groove. The ongoing argument with herself plays out in her head: turn back now, this is too hard, you should be doing something else, ten minutes is good enough, how about later, just a little break, come on, comeoncomeoncomeon. Over and over she comes back to the sound of her feet, syncing her breath to her stride, alternating inhalations with exhalations on opposite strides. Stay loose, think tall, drop her shoulders, eyes up, belly on, hands loose, keep breathing. All these cues and mantras underscore the sound of her heart thumping, thumping, thumping until finally, magically, they fall away and she simply runs. This is the best part. The freedom of flight, lightness of being. Getting lost in her own movement, feeling omnipotent, like she could run away all the anxiety an...

And then, and then, and then- Heather stops to catch her breath. She starts choking on her own saliva pooling in the back of her throat. She stops and coughs violently, wheezes an intake of breath and tries to calm herself down.Whenever she gets worked up she loses the ability to speak in full sentences. Her hands start to shake and her feet get ice cold. She has a series of exercises she's supposed to do to quiet the noise and slow her brain down. Cognitive reprogramming, it's called. Her mom's obsessed with neuroplasticity, retraining the brain, so she makes Heather practice and practice and practice patterns and reactions so she can control her outbursts. She's a raw nerve; cries on a dime, becomes righteously indignant when the neighbour scolds her dog. It's too much. Heather's worn out, run down, depleted by the sheer effort required to exist. She feels everything full on, her dial goes up to 11 and then into overdrive. The other kids at school are freaked ...

Four more days til he can get back to her. The deal is never longer than two weeks. Thirteen consecutive nights alone and even that is pushing it. After 4 years of long distance commuting Tom is feeling things start to implode. They're creating problems where there aren't any for the sake of conversation. Conflict creates contentious communion. Magnetic poles attracting and repelling simultaneously. It started so well. Big dreams, incredible connection. Flurries of fleeting layovers, insane exhausting weekends, extended overnighters,  the eventual week-long live-in. From the beginning they know what they're in for. Bicoastal breakdown. Tom vows he'll never do a long distance relationship. Elaine doesn't see it coming. An unexpected hello turns into a twenty minute seduction. His eyes on her arms, her lips on his neck, their fingers intertwine, legs interlock and time stops. Clothing litters the floor, sheets are soaking wet, an entire suite is consumed by their bodi...

Today there are 5 books on programming and design. Softcover tomes, each an inch and a half thick, identical in size, differentiated only by colour schemes. Outdated computer manuals stacked in a leaning tower on top of an overflowing recycling bin pushed to the edge of a perfectly manicured lawn. Sarah is intensely curious about the people who live here. Last week there were two dog eared pulp fiction paperbacks, a Carnegie Mellon course calendar from 2004, a bamboo room divider missing a panel, and an old fishbowl complete with faded coloured pebbles and plastic trees. The week before there were two medical text books and random issues old New Yorkers spanning the last 3 years. Either there's a host of foreign students rotating through in a short term rental situation or the most eclectic, artistically inclined, well read, tech saavy family on the block. It's a non descript semi detached two story barn like house, smack dab in a multi culti family neighbourhood just off the m...