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...