Waving Not Drowning

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...

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...

It's a long walk up the property back to the kitchen from the boathouse. Adam feels every step pulling on the back of his calves. Ten years they've been here, long enough for the cottage to become their second home. He never saw himself as a guy with a cottage. A guy with a rich wife, 2 kids, a summer home, a winter chalet and four luxury vehicles. But here he is. For now. The divorce is finalized in October. It's been a long time coming. Caroline separated years ago. Separate vacations, separate beds. Separate bank accounts. Hard blow to his ego, being a secondary bread winner. Intoxicating at first, being well tended. Having a sugar momma. Meant he could write all day. Play his guitar, do yoga, make movies. Then the kids. The shift in focus. Work dropped off and suddenly he's Mr Mom. No more all night jam sessions, spontaneous dates with Geoff and Gord. Or Caroline. There are expectations that come with marrying money. Accountability. Towing the party line. Commitment...

The second glass of Santa Margherita goes down easier, sweet, cool, tangy relief. It's been six weeks, no booze. Against advice from the psychiatrist, just to make sure her health is as optimum as can be. And it is, apparently. Phenomenally low blood pressure, excellent renal function, solid heart health. The social worker told her they'd be taking her left kidney- 50.3 percent function in her right, 49.7 in her left so technically, it was the inferior one. She was planning a Liberating Lefty party, a farewell celebration. It wasn't until Chris pulled her aside in the waiting room last week while running a session for some insurance spot that she began to think about her disease differently, as a potential detriment, a contraindication to her potential to save her friend's life or even some stranger's. He had a resectioning, 31 centimetres, but like her, no drug protocol. It was too risky, he was told, to even consider donating; he wouldn't qualify. But since sh...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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 ...

On the first, third and fourth Tuesdays of every month Tracey finds herself in a familiar church basement meeting hall, sitting on a dented metal fold out chair, sipping on lousy but free percolated coffee from a styrofoam cup, topped up with two cubes of processed white sugar. On special days, like an anniversary or someone feeling generous, there are fresh doughnuts or a bundt cake instead of the usual variety of bulk store no-name cookies, like those weird ones with the stripes of black and white icing. Tracey avoids those unless all of the arrowroots and maple cream filled leaf ones are gone. Tracey never intended to make this a regular thing; it started 8 months ago when she saw the sign leading down the stairs on the way out of the bathroom. St Stephen's is on her ride home after Pilates class. She had to pee so badly that she stopped to use the church facilities. It was past dinner time, so when she smelled the coffee and freshly baked lemon loaf- it was a one year chip day ...

Jason had her number. He had everyone's number as soon as they walked onto his lot. The only reason anyone ever comes onto a used car lot is to find a great deal or what they believe is a great deal because they can't afford to drive anything else. The young guys can't afford insurance on their foreign status symbol dream cars and the recovering drunks and reprobates can't afford anything else. Young couples with kids and dogs in search of a second car they can rationalize as relatively safe yet can drive it into the ground for a few grand; new divorcees who walked away from it all rather than put up a fight. Jason's seen them all, sometimes within the same day. He's lucky. Ahmed and Karim are top notch mechanics. He lets them work on side projects in the service bay when nothing else is moving on the lot. Ahmed's cousin of a cousin's sister's brother or something has a line on old cabs, cop cars and delivery vehicles. They don't move many of the...

There's a quiet sadness to her body, folded in on itself, chin tucked, hair parted and held hostage with a jewelled barrette and plastic comb. Rose is written on the side of her paper coffee cup in strident black sharpie, a reminder or a banner. She delicately picks away at her muffin, working her way through the body of it, leaving the top for last. Always delaying gratification. She still wears her wedding ring. It's been 7 years. She feels incomplete without it, disassembled. Her daughters have given up. They live in Victoria now. Rose tells herself that's why they don't call or visit. The time difference, the flights, her 300 square foot apartment. The money from the estate sale is long gone and disability doesn't afford much. The tea and muffin are a decadent treat, a splurge better spent on real bills and groceries but here amongst the writers and students, the sea of stroller bearing mothers, she disappears in full view. There's comfort in being invisible...