Waving Not Drowning

No one likes a puker, Doris. I've told you that a thousand times. You either learn to keep it down or stop it from starting in the first place. I am tired of cleaning up after you. Enough already. You're not a kitten anymore. And it's not like you spend your days grass grazing on the back forty like Bob's cats down the way. Slow down. SLOW DOWN, I say. But no.  Food goes in the bowl and BOOM, like a black hole or tornado. The Tasmanian Devil, a whirling dervish snarfing it up like there will never be another score. I should have empathy. I should. I DO, I really do. It's just you're so good for a week or four and then blammo, like a cartoon character, projectile vomit streams across the floor. A torrent of fetid, viscous mush, resting in a pool of yellow bile.  I'm on the fourth rug now, you hear me? FOURTH. I'm not made of money, you know. Most of that goes to your fancy ass  vet-only dry food and low fat "mature cat" tinned food. You delica...

Go. Get on that plane, that train, that bus. Walk if you have to. Swim, we've got great lakes and oceans and rivers. So many bodies of water and tracts of land to get across. Find a way, they said, just get here, soon. And so Tally packed a bag with just the essentials: a blueberry corn muffin with a shmear of cream cheese, her well worn pocket stone she rubs in her left hand, a packet of mints from the drive in theatre, and two pineapple juice boxes. A clean pair of socks, some dental floss, mom's old cigarette lighter she stole off her bureau, and twenty three dollars and eighty five cents in change. That was the heaviest part of her backpack. She wondered if she was forgetting something but her mind raced with all the things at once. Will her shoes be comfortable on the long journey? Did she feed the cockatiel before she left the house? How can she get across the ocean if the boats aren't docking in the harbour anymore? What if she runs out of money? Will Joseph be...

It won't be long now. Soon, he said. Soon. When there's no light left to rise and no moon to wax and wane then you will know. And it will be time. Better yet, I'll know. Trust in me that I will know when it's time to go. He's been talking about the end for a while now. More so since his last fall. A good life, he says; no- a Great Life, all told. Filled with purpose and reward, intellectual and financial. Emotionally engaged, well tended. Freedom of movement and exploration, of the world, of ideas. Of humankind. Privilege not afforded many. But kind. Above all else, kind. The body is transparent. Adaptive, compensatory, until it no longer bends but breaks. Slows down, degrades.  Yields to impending forces. Of age. Infirmity. A loss of autonomy. He's not one to ask for help. Not prideful; conscientious. Unwilling to burden anyone other than himself. The desire for dignity in death is paramount. To see the end as a beginning to whatever the en...

Now this is worth celebrating. We've made it through. All the way to the other side. The unknown. Granted, we're not really sure if this is the other side so much as the end of some sort of time or journey but hip hip hooray, here we all are. Most of us. Some of us got left behind. Forgotten. Passed away. No, not dead, they just passed us going the other way. Carl thought we should give them a head's up to the fact that maybe they were moving in the wrong direction, but I said, Carl, remember- you never know where someone's coming from or where they're going. Everyone is on their own journey. Maybe they're going the right direction for them. Carl does his tight head waggle and starts to speak then his lips purse and he turns away from me to keep moving. Through, he said, we're moving through, not doubling back.  They can't possibly be on the right path. I don't know what you think this entire journey has been about, Arvid, but I'm sure as heck n...

Side effects may include loss of sight, smell, raging diarrhea, flatulance, leaky gut syndrome, and an overall sense of malaise. Rare cases of stage 4 terminal lymphoma-based cancers have been known to occur. (Sorry) Suicidal thoughts, questioning one's self worth and life's purpose may also occur. Avoid if pregnant or nursing Thinking about pregnancy Thinking about dating Which may possibly lead to sex Which may accidentally lead to pregnancy with some emotionally unavailable douchenozzle who will flip out and go ballistic when you tell him after the fact that you've decided you're just not that into the idea of parenting to begin with so you'll be making the choice to terminate without his input, thank you very much. In other words, engage at your own risk. At this point, Barb's forgotten why she was even considering treatment at all. Why not just stay home, bake artisanal vegan macarons and write the next great travel guide to south western Utah. ...

If she leaves now, there's a good, no, a GREAT chance he won't see her. He's buried in his phone with his headphones on. Perfect. She's got her back to the door, her hoodie's around her waist, toque pulled low, massive glasses obscuring her face. She can grab her bag, scoop up her laptop and just GO. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Mel? Is that you? Fer crissake- why do people say that? She shared a bed with him for two years, six months and 13 and a half days. She picked gingersnap crumbs off his chest while he slurped Earl Grey tea, and read racing biographies to him out loud for hours on end. They'd stumble over each other in the bathroom half naked, jockeying for space in the mirror. That beard. His cheap clippers tripping the fuse. Every single time. No one groomed longer than Alan. He's really not sure it's her? This from the man who mapped the freckles on her body with a Sharpie. Who tattooed her name on the inside of his bicep s...

It takes too long to steam the milk, so she pours it into the coffee straight from the fridge. Makes for a tepid cup, but she finishes it in a few long pulls. Good enough. The fridge is brand new, as is the stove. So is the bathroom sink and toilet. The last tenant died here so they did a complete overhaul on the apartment, including new floors and paint job. Sometimes it's easier to tear it all down and start over. She wasn't expecting this. Sometimes life throws you a curveball; you're thinking fastball and up you go. Counts 3 and 2, runner on 2nd, one out, bottom of the 6th. Ten more outs to go. You've got this. Head down. Keep on swinging. He would have been 19 this May. Christopher Harrison Jude. So many birth names. Never a battle she wanted to wage so everyone got their pick. He crowned and then stopped when she was giving birth as if to say, wait- I don't know- I just- I don't belong here. His first attempt was grade 9. Teams we...

He sits silently, tears streaming down his face, without shame or self consciousness. This is not how he was raised. Men don't cry. They are stoic in the face of adversity. Devoid of emotion. Indomitable. He hears his heart pulse in his ears, feels the flush of heat creeping into his cheeks, spilling down his neck under a mass of a thick, dense beard, sculpted tight to his jawline so as to not obscure the landscape of tattoos covering almost every inch of his body. His body. That in and of itself is monumental. Glorious. Hulking. Strong. Capable. Impenetrable. His shoulders shake and his breath comes in gasps, eyes soft and red from weeping. He takes a long, slow breath, closing his eyes, his hand lifts to his heart as his head drops softly toward his chest. He's beautiful like this. Open, available, transparent. The new normal. Wondrously so. He is lighter now. With compassion comes immense relief. No more anger or shame, blame or anxiety. Just release...

God damn, she's driving me crazy. On and on and on. The incessant wail of her screamed-sung anthem blasts from the speakers. The desk is shaking. She sounds like a ferret on fire. Jesus woman, put a sock in it before I drown you in someone else's sorrows. Two months, that was the deal. One hundred and thirty two days, 14 hours and 16 minutes later, she has completely worn out her welcome. My hospitality hit the road after the neighbours left a threatening note regarding her compunction for spontaneous late night drum circles. On the front lawn. With an old marching band bass drum she found at the Sally Ann down on Fourth. At least the constable looked good in a uniform. I've tried. I really really tried. Two sets of 600 thread count sheets stained to oblivion, one incinerated crepe pan left in the oven and set to broil, nearly burning down the house. Shades of pink in all my whites. Inhaling the final bar of my emergency crisis chocolate stash while using t...

"Pick a card, any card." Kevin flared a deck in front of her with incredible ease and grace, so studied that it appeared the fan of laminated cards was a natural extension of his hand. "Not now, Kev, ok? I'm not in the mood." Kevin stood motionless for three seconds then with an exaggerated ruffle he collapsed the accordion of cards into a perfectly stacked deck, his gestures so fluid as to be unnoticeable. Sleight of hand. It was awkward between them. Tight, rough. Never date a magician, this is permanently etched into her brain now. She used to love it, the mystery, the tricks so remarkable she squealed with shock and delight. A total turn on. Talent gets her every time. Now it's one big irritation. A constant itch he needs scratched. Look at me, look at me. Did you see that, can you believe your eyes He's worse than that actor. Almost as bad as that stand up comic she slept with, the one who screamed like a girl. If Tracy wanted needy she...

His fingertips on her skin, his breath in her lungs Filling her up with memories of what once Was What will never again Be. The smell of clean damp skin Of bathwater Sweat soaked scalp Slept-in hair worn covered under a woollen hat too long. The way his hands twitch when he hears music with his body. The way her hips move, articulating her language. Familiar once Now foreign to each other. An unspoken language Long forgotten in the disharmony of their destruction. Strangers in waiting Wondering if past transgressions can ever give way to the possibility of future forgiveness. Begin again. Do over And over and over and over to the point where they become numb Non sensical in rhythm Rhyme, time. Incommunicado.

If one day she wakes up, gets dressed and decides that's it, it's over, she's done and simply gives up,  will she disappear?  And if she disappears, then what? Does it really matter? How to be alone in public. How to disappear in full view. How to restart, or reset. Not re invention. Begin again. Today and everyday.  A do over. A restart from a completely different place. Three steps left of here. Twelve degrees north by north west. Down under. Up and over. Get on a plane, a train, an automobile or just start walking and end up somewhere, nowhere, anywhere but here and start anew.  Fresh. How many people start again. After it all falls apart. From the ashes, arise and take flight.  T hen disappear. In plain view.  Sometimes it's a freefall. Sometimes the ground comes up and swallows her whole.  Sometimes she loses sight of herself. Begin again.  Go so deep, so dark, get so irretrievably lost that the only way out is through. Onwar...

It's been two weeks now. Fourteen days. No word, no signs of other life. She's rationed whatever supplies she could scrounge but is worried about water more than anything; the iodine tablets are disappearing and her biggest fear is dissentry, some sort of water borne illness that ravages her system, explosively and painfully. The art of being alone has somehow transformed into an extreme sport with life and death consequences. Time is paramount. Never has Teresa felt so ephemeral as a human being. Helpless. Stranded on this island of her own volition, lost somewhere between her original coordinates and god knows where. If she's being honest with herself, this is a choice. She didn't have to set out alone. The thrill and damn it all to hell of independence quickly tires when the day to day realities of complete autonomy weigh heavily on her entire being. What to eat, how to dress, what direction to move forward in; at what cost to not only herself but those interdependen...

The humidity is rising, she feels it in her hair, on her skin. A thickness weighing her down, heavy in her lungs. Sticky air, hard to breathe. The salt on her face- her own, the ocean's- commingling, a different acridity. Stings. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Bitter harsh pointed words. Communication breakdown. The devolution of care. When cross purposes collide old ghosts rise from their graves, decaying, conjured by the inability to acquiesce. Ancient rage wreaking havoc on the living ones they've left behind. Bury your dead, bury them, leave them lie. Incinerate them, blow them up into smithereens, scatter the ashes to sea. The fetid stench of death and anger dragged behind like an anchor mooring them in separate seas. Hurricane's coming and neither has the wherewithal to change course. Seek refuge, find safety, weigh anchor, head for home. Chaos reigns, self preservation at all costs overrides one for all and all for one. The shift is so minute; if either side...

Every day at 3 pm he gets into his car, a 2006 Toyota Corolla 4 door sedan in  a sunfaded navy, plugs in his gps, turns the radio on to Jazz FM and buckles himself in. Even though Curtis is the only person who ever drives his car, he checks then rechecks and adjusts his mirrors, just in case they've shifted over the course of the 8 hours the Corolla's been parked in an underground secured employee only parking lot. Monday through Friday, Curtis drives the 38 kilometre return trip from his 1970's- era one bedroom walk up apartment on a quiet one way dead end street in the city's east end all the way across town to the hip new enclave of design warehouses where he works as a program developer in the land of web design. A drone tethered to his computer in a medium sized start up company where he manages to disappear into the fabric of his surroundings. Milquetoast amongst a sea of brightly coloured walls, hyper lit screens, geometric patterned floors and dynamic, gregariou...

A boy named Gren. A beautiful, long limbed, willowy boy with wide eyes, a high smooth forehead, and a dirty blonde mop of tangled waves at constant war with gravity. A shy boy. Spirited and curious but terrifically shy. Quiet. Silent. He's a runner. He runs and runs and runs. A perpetual motion machine smelling of black licorice and bazooka gum, lemonade and peanut butter, and the earthy, pungeant odour of sweaty young boy. Wormy when the ground swells after sudden rain. Old wood crumbling into dust after years of age, splinters melting in his hands they're so soft from rot. Every day he makes up stories off the top of his head as he gallops through the trails of giant redwoods, scaling walls of verdant green moss, ducking under canopies of ferns and pine, imagining the backwoods his own private kingdom. He communicates with the birds and deer and frogs and spiders and tiny red squirrels and they animate his tales in play by play fashion. Gren can't tell who's leading w...

Please no, not now, no. No no no no no. Aw, crap. Sarah is dying. Her head is pounding, it feels like there are socks stuffed up her nose. At first she thought it was allergies- tis the season and everything- then the thick head, phlegmy couch, an absolute inability to sleep because the moment she lays her head down she can't breathe. Smothered alive by her own histamines. Underwater, drowning in the sound of her own body; her ears are plugged up so every swallow sounds like a crackling back of tortilla chips. Which would be great if she had any appetite at all. Not that she's not eating. Exhausted, punch drunk with daytime cold medicine and she shovels in some oatmeal and cups of earl grey, shots of  vitamin c. All that time dating the yogi and the best gift was being turned onto the neti pot. Excruciatingly  painful- she nearly collapses on the floor trying to fill her sinuses with salt water. What a bizarre idea. One side is fine but the other is akin to being held upside d...

Gerry insists on wearing the green cords, his favourite purple Ninja Turtle t shirt topped with his cape. Lorna doesn't really care; Gerry's worn that cape almost every day since his birthday in April. When she puts him to bed after reading The Velveteen Rabbit four times and they sing You've Got A Friend in whispers twice, she turns the light off and the constellation glows a faint green on his ceiling. She listens for the shift in his breathing, when it drops in cadence, deeper, slower. That's the moment to extricate the cape from under his pillow. Enough time to throw it in the wash and get it dried, folded and placed back where it started before she passes out from exhaustion, generally around 10. It's been a long four years. He's a great kid but this was never the plan, solo parenting. Now, first day of school in the morning. Weeks of planning, dry runs, deciding on what to wear again and again. The cords, the sweater, the jeans, the superman pajamas. Alway...

He places a cool cloth across her forehead. She's burning up, in and out of sleep, struggling. It's breaking his heart but he's so grateful to be here. His guitar lays at the foot of the bed. Gibson Les Paul Standard Gold Top, the one gift she got right. He played to her for hours, all her favourites, singing in that voice she loves, making up words if he forgot them. She didn't notice. If she did, she didn't care. She probably only hears him in waves anyway. She comes to then slides back under, the way tides ebb and flow at the full moon's passing. She's leaving him, this time for good. No more slamming doors or hanging up the phone. No cars speeding off down a dirt road, taillights fading while he stands alone in the ditch wondering how he's going to get back home. So much anger. Rage. Passion. Intensity. Disappointment and fear defined her until she exhausted him and her body in the process. Millions of cells, billions of molecules passing in the air ...

In the middle of their conversation, Ray leans across the table and injects himself into the story. Kerri stops short, caught off guard. She takes a moment to assess the situation, read Ray's tone, decipher his intent and decides against a defensive response, which is generally a wise choice. Lara'a oblivious to Kerri's sudden freeze out and gives Ray the floor. Kerri's new here; these people are not yet her people. A sprawling mass of  tables jammed together in a long row to celebrate a birthday of a new mutual friend where everyone seems to know each other intimately. She gets a sense of long term relationships, private jokes, battles fought and won and histories stamped in the ground. Boisterous, loud, rambling conversations and anecdotes overlap, cancelling each other out. Kerri's private conversation with Lara about her peripatetic childhood and father's journey in the service prompts an invasive and unsolicited query from Ray. He peppers her about her fath...