Roger had a maximum of twelve days to live.
The doctors had calculated his expected life span based on a number of important criteria including his weight, his urine output, and the size of the tumour on his kidney.
Granted he had done some research on his own -- the internet is such a valuable tool -- and considered the doctors' calculations to be off by at least fifteen hours, give or take sixteen minutes.
As a good scientist, he decided to use his time in the utmost of utilitarian fashion. He broke down the days into four hour segments, and assigned a variety of tasks to each segment. The more pedantic items were accomplished first: the catering and urn selection at the funeral home, the beneficiary and executor finalizations at the lawyers' office, and, of course, the appropriate adoption protocol for his cat, Fluffy, to ensure her continued life. After all, he could not possibly die and leave Fluffy's life in the hands of animal shelter workers who would just as soon euthanize her than find her an appropriate adoptive placement.
The hospice workers worried that Roger would have fewer than twelve days to live if he continued to work so fiendishly on his to-do list. However, he had decided that he would end his life just as he had lived it so far, with his nose pressed ever so firmly against a grindstone, metaphorically speaking, of course.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Quixotic
Walter had always imagined a day when he would don his quixotic robes and stride off to save the damsel from the vile and vicious Dr. Terrible. However, Walter was more a dreamer than a doer, and his robe was an ugly plaid bathrobe, and though damsels regularly appeared in his daydreams, he was not actually acquainted with one in reality.
His idea of an exciting Saturday night involved pizza with an exotic topping like hot peppers, and a few hours of Xbox live play in a game like Halo. And, to be honest, he got his ass kicked so quickly that few regulars would allow him on their teams.
One Thursday, on his long train ride home, he was planning what he would concoct for dinner from the leftover liver and rutabagas in his refrigerator, when a somewhat plain young woman took the sole remaining empty seat beside him.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello," he returned.
They smiled politely, then buried their noses in their books.
His idea of an exciting Saturday night involved pizza with an exotic topping like hot peppers, and a few hours of Xbox live play in a game like Halo. And, to be honest, he got his ass kicked so quickly that few regulars would allow him on their teams.
One Thursday, on his long train ride home, he was planning what he would concoct for dinner from the leftover liver and rutabagas in his refrigerator, when a somewhat plain young woman took the sole remaining empty seat beside him.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello," he returned.
They smiled politely, then buried their noses in their books.
Sunday, 2 January 2011
Sheep, die, moon, alien, house, tree, airplane, key, chaos
A wonderful friend sent me some "story cubes" as a holiday gift. For the first time, I'm using them for my word-a-day inspiration. I got the nine words (as symbols) that are the title. Below, find the story that used all nine.
I lay in the wet grass, staring up at the night sky. The moon, half full, had a yellow tinge to it, as though some stray animal like a sheep had pissed on it for not having any graze worthy vegetation. Catching movement in my peripheral vision, I began to piece together an elaborate wish for the shooting star; something involving a trip to Vegas and a die or two that would only roll sevens and elevens.
The star turned out to be an airplane. No big winnings in my immediate future.
I rolled onto my side, trying to shuffle off the tree root that had been digging a permanent kink into my left hip. Had to be a root, 'cause it sure as hell didn't feel like a rock. But the nearest tree was a good hundred yards behind me.
Rifling through the grass, I felt around for the perpetrator.
It moved.
Not on its own or anything, it wasn't a bug or a critter for that matter. I wiggled it free of the ground and held it up. The night was way too dark to make out any kind of detail, and I didn't have my phone with me to use as a flashlight. But from what I could tell, it looked unnatural, and yet not man-made either.
I shuddered.
Because I'm the kind of gal who doesn't believe all the hokum that's been batted around town, and there isn't any such thing as an alien, let alone space ships full of bug-eyed big-headed freaks that abduct people and take them back for some unmentionable probing of nether regions and such. Giving it another look, I settled in on the idea that it was a piece of a key. One of those old-fashioned keys named after skeletons, though they don't look like bones or have any kind of connection to Halloween or horror shows.
Without any more concern for our star-cruising neighbours, I stuffed the thing in my pocket and headed back to the house. I'd left the porch light on, so the closer I got, the less I could see of the sky above me. Somehow, all the stars seemed closer to the ground than when I decided to take a late night walk, as though they'd had some kind of eviction notice in the cosmos and the resulting chaos made them all head for safer planets.
I lay in the wet grass, staring up at the night sky. The moon, half full, had a yellow tinge to it, as though some stray animal like a sheep had pissed on it for not having any graze worthy vegetation. Catching movement in my peripheral vision, I began to piece together an elaborate wish for the shooting star; something involving a trip to Vegas and a die or two that would only roll sevens and elevens.
The star turned out to be an airplane. No big winnings in my immediate future.
I rolled onto my side, trying to shuffle off the tree root that had been digging a permanent kink into my left hip. Had to be a root, 'cause it sure as hell didn't feel like a rock. But the nearest tree was a good hundred yards behind me.
Rifling through the grass, I felt around for the perpetrator.
It moved.
Not on its own or anything, it wasn't a bug or a critter for that matter. I wiggled it free of the ground and held it up. The night was way too dark to make out any kind of detail, and I didn't have my phone with me to use as a flashlight. But from what I could tell, it looked unnatural, and yet not man-made either.
I shuddered.
Because I'm the kind of gal who doesn't believe all the hokum that's been batted around town, and there isn't any such thing as an alien, let alone space ships full of bug-eyed big-headed freaks that abduct people and take them back for some unmentionable probing of nether regions and such. Giving it another look, I settled in on the idea that it was a piece of a key. One of those old-fashioned keys named after skeletons, though they don't look like bones or have any kind of connection to Halloween or horror shows.
Without any more concern for our star-cruising neighbours, I stuffed the thing in my pocket and headed back to the house. I'd left the porch light on, so the closer I got, the less I could see of the sky above me. Somehow, all the stars seemed closer to the ground than when I decided to take a late night walk, as though they'd had some kind of eviction notice in the cosmos and the resulting chaos made them all head for safer planets.
Tuesday, 28 December 2010
Yeti
When the yeti stole my tuna sandwich, I knew it was going to be a long day.
I should've known better than to leave my Hummer unlocked, but, come on, when they have to put the phones on the map, you figure no one's around to steal your car stereo. So I was on one of those long treks through northern Ontario, checking on the winter health of a bunch of tree orchards. The last community that I'd visited had mentioned the recent boom in the yeti population, saying we were in for one of those lemming-off-a-cliff corrections soon, but in the meantime I should be on my guard.
Well, I figured they were just yanking my white-boy chain, putting a zinger on the non-native from the government. With two strikes like that against a guy, hell, I'd be zinging me too. So, yeah, I didn't lock my door, and I'd left the bread and the empty can of tuna in plain sight. A total invitation to have lunch on the government's dime.
The bugger did. The damned thing even left a nice dump by the driver's door, so that I had to practically leap over it to climb behind the wheel. At least it didn't mark my tires, because it takes forever to get the smell of piss off in the dead of winter.
I should've known better than to leave my Hummer unlocked, but, come on, when they have to put the phones on the map, you figure no one's around to steal your car stereo. So I was on one of those long treks through northern Ontario, checking on the winter health of a bunch of tree orchards. The last community that I'd visited had mentioned the recent boom in the yeti population, saying we were in for one of those lemming-off-a-cliff corrections soon, but in the meantime I should be on my guard.
Well, I figured they were just yanking my white-boy chain, putting a zinger on the non-native from the government. With two strikes like that against a guy, hell, I'd be zinging me too. So, yeah, I didn't lock my door, and I'd left the bread and the empty can of tuna in plain sight. A total invitation to have lunch on the government's dime.
The bugger did. The damned thing even left a nice dump by the driver's door, so that I had to practically leap over it to climb behind the wheel. At least it didn't mark my tires, because it takes forever to get the smell of piss off in the dead of winter.
Monday, 29 November 2010
Pressure
Sinus pressure hit Sheryl like a Chevy Impala through a plate glass window: painful, messy, and depressing. No manner of medication could ease the pressure, no vitamin could speed the germ's progress, and no room could be dark enough to dull the endless pounding of pressure against her skull.
Cold and flu season could turn her life upside down, so every year, Sheryl was first in line for a flu shot. Every morning, she swallowed extra vitamin C capsules as well as tried and true remedies like Cold FX or ginseng tea. And while these steps would severely reduce the frequency of her bouts, the virus demons always seemed to force their way into her sinus cavity at least once a year.
This particular night, Sheryl lay in bed, her pillows at an extreme angle to drain fluids as much as possible. Her eyes remained firmly closed, her blankets snuggled neatly about, and her box of tissues close at hand. Tears only aggravated the condition, adding extra pressure in the sinus cavity, but try as she might, she could not hold them back against the torrent of agony.
Cold and flu season could turn her life upside down, so every year, Sheryl was first in line for a flu shot. Every morning, she swallowed extra vitamin C capsules as well as tried and true remedies like Cold FX or ginseng tea. And while these steps would severely reduce the frequency of her bouts, the virus demons always seemed to force their way into her sinus cavity at least once a year.
This particular night, Sheryl lay in bed, her pillows at an extreme angle to drain fluids as much as possible. Her eyes remained firmly closed, her blankets snuggled neatly about, and her box of tissues close at hand. Tears only aggravated the condition, adding extra pressure in the sinus cavity, but try as she might, she could not hold them back against the torrent of agony.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Crow
Henry had grown to anticipate the seven am arrival of the crow. He had even begun to think of it as his crow, even though no wild creature could ever belong to a human being.
Each morning, he would set his alarm to wake him five minutes before seven, enough time to use the bathroom then part his curtains and wait. Like clockwork, the crow would drop down and alight on the thick hemlock branch beyond the window.
More than seventy percent of the time, the bird would look left first, then right, then stare at Henry. For a time, the young man kept track of the head movements, curious as to whether birds followed patterns or simply acted. But his crow did seem to think, to find comfort in the routine of a particular look from a particular branch at the same particular time each morning.
His mother had once asked Henry how he knew that the same crow appeared each day. He had explained to her that his crow had a blue spot on its right wing, probably from getting too close to wet paint before it dried. And if he used his binoculars, he could also observe that this crow had one abnormally long toe on its left foot.
All of this routine, the unwavering discipline of his crow, helped Henry to find comfort in his own human realm. He hadn't many friends, nor was he interested in sports or books or video games. He lived for routine, just like his crow.
The two were meant for each other.
Each morning, he would set his alarm to wake him five minutes before seven, enough time to use the bathroom then part his curtains and wait. Like clockwork, the crow would drop down and alight on the thick hemlock branch beyond the window.
More than seventy percent of the time, the bird would look left first, then right, then stare at Henry. For a time, the young man kept track of the head movements, curious as to whether birds followed patterns or simply acted. But his crow did seem to think, to find comfort in the routine of a particular look from a particular branch at the same particular time each morning.
His mother had once asked Henry how he knew that the same crow appeared each day. He had explained to her that his crow had a blue spot on its right wing, probably from getting too close to wet paint before it dried. And if he used his binoculars, he could also observe that this crow had one abnormally long toe on its left foot.
All of this routine, the unwavering discipline of his crow, helped Henry to find comfort in his own human realm. He hadn't many friends, nor was he interested in sports or books or video games. He lived for routine, just like his crow.
The two were meant for each other.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Hour
An hour can be a very long time, or it can fly by quicker than a bird overhead. I know, because my life, like that of the elusive hour, has proceeded in fits of rapidity and globs of slowness.
I used to lie in bed, fearing the clock, hearing each tick as it counted towards my ultimate removal from the planet. I felt a sense of urgency all the time, knowing full well that I could never accomplish the goals I had once set for myself. The human spirit is a delicate one, and once the body realizes that it cannot hold up all of these dreams, all of these watermarks, it begins to crack under the pressure. Suddenly, you find yourself in physiotherapy for the latest ailment, because you tried too hard at the tennis match with that younger player.
Then the mind steps in and adds its own melancholy to the equation. You find yourself listening to depressing music, and eating chips and ice cream (not together, of course) to try (and fail) to block the pain that comes with inadequacy. Then the doctor is recommending SSRI's and trips to the tropics when the days are short.
But it's life that's short, not the days. And it's time that's ticking, not your depressed heart. And its time for another hour to fly by, flipping you the bird on its way past.
I have my own bird to flip to time. I will pause. I will administer self care. I will mediate. I will think before I act. And I will build a plan, however foolhardy, and even if I only accomplish one thing out of twenty, I will celebrate that success.
I used to lie in bed, fearing the clock, hearing each tick as it counted towards my ultimate removal from the planet. I felt a sense of urgency all the time, knowing full well that I could never accomplish the goals I had once set for myself. The human spirit is a delicate one, and once the body realizes that it cannot hold up all of these dreams, all of these watermarks, it begins to crack under the pressure. Suddenly, you find yourself in physiotherapy for the latest ailment, because you tried too hard at the tennis match with that younger player.
Then the mind steps in and adds its own melancholy to the equation. You find yourself listening to depressing music, and eating chips and ice cream (not together, of course) to try (and fail) to block the pain that comes with inadequacy. Then the doctor is recommending SSRI's and trips to the tropics when the days are short.
But it's life that's short, not the days. And it's time that's ticking, not your depressed heart. And its time for another hour to fly by, flipping you the bird on its way past.
I have my own bird to flip to time. I will pause. I will administer self care. I will mediate. I will think before I act. And I will build a plan, however foolhardy, and even if I only accomplish one thing out of twenty, I will celebrate that success.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Conceit
I used to hate the word, "conceit," as it would conjure up images of people who thought they were better than they were, especially people like the kids I went to school with. But then I plunged into writing, and discovered that "conceit" could have a different meaning, a nobler meaning, that of an image or idea that is extreme or unrealistic, but is absolutely necessary for the construction of a particular story. Or script, because I dabble in writing for the screen as well.
The conceit is the Holy Grail, it is the cookie that satisfies you after a long day of struggling and pondering. It is what separates the men from the boys, the shit from the brilliant, the prize winners from the wasteland of slush.
I spend my time pondering the next brilliant conceit. I think about it when I'm driving my car, or in the shower, or while I'm exercising. So far, I've been occasionally clever, and somewhat insightful, but no moments of pure this-will-make-me-famous.
When fans ask the infamous question of their favourite big-time author, "Where do you get your ideas?" what they're really asking is, "Where in the hell did you come up with that conceit that was so amazing that it put you in the running with the Stephen King's and John Grisham's of the world?"
Aside from selling their souls to the devil, I'm sure they simply came up with the ideas randomly, or from some reading or research that interested them or sent them in a particular direction.
This is the part where I ask the fates for a bit of a shove in the conceit direction, because I have no interest in selling my soul. I need it for later. And the only direction my research has pointed me is on the boring, it-has-been-done-already heading.
The conceit is the Holy Grail, it is the cookie that satisfies you after a long day of struggling and pondering. It is what separates the men from the boys, the shit from the brilliant, the prize winners from the wasteland of slush.
I spend my time pondering the next brilliant conceit. I think about it when I'm driving my car, or in the shower, or while I'm exercising. So far, I've been occasionally clever, and somewhat insightful, but no moments of pure this-will-make-me-famous.
When fans ask the infamous question of their favourite big-time author, "Where do you get your ideas?" what they're really asking is, "Where in the hell did you come up with that conceit that was so amazing that it put you in the running with the Stephen King's and John Grisham's of the world?"
Aside from selling their souls to the devil, I'm sure they simply came up with the ideas randomly, or from some reading or research that interested them or sent them in a particular direction.
This is the part where I ask the fates for a bit of a shove in the conceit direction, because I have no interest in selling my soul. I need it for later. And the only direction my research has pointed me is on the boring, it-has-been-done-already heading.
Thursday, 24 June 2010
Security
Security is an illusion. A thousand cops with Kevlar vests and riot helmets won't stop a mob. Only slow it down, give it something to bite into, spit out, and piss on.
When I was in my teens, I felt secure. My parents took care of all the big stuff, like mortgages and taxes, heat and food. My friends, my posse, would hang with me, always ready to diss whatever bored us that day.
But middle age is a far cry from the teens. About as far as Iqaluit is from Toronto, in size, geographical location, and cosmopolitan-ness. The ages in the middle have found me, gripped me, and turned me into a combination of a cynic and a paranoid freak.
Every night, before bed, I check the locks. Sometimes a couple of times. Whenever I park the car, I go through a whole process of putting all the "good stuff" in the trunk, checking windows, the locks, even the parking brake. Worst, though, is when my two almost-adult-kids decide to take the car, or go out with a pack of friends. I practically bind myself to my cell phone, awaiting their text for a ride home. Better that than a trip to the police station to bail them out.
Or worse.
Yeah, I think of worse. I ponder it, stress it, allow it to blossom into mutated versions of the-absolute-most-terrible-thing-that-can-happen-does scenarios.
All the alarm systems, and radio response units, and body guards won't help me. Because it's what I can't see, what they won't anticipate, that's what scares me the most.
When I was in my teens, I felt secure. My parents took care of all the big stuff, like mortgages and taxes, heat and food. My friends, my posse, would hang with me, always ready to diss whatever bored us that day.
But middle age is a far cry from the teens. About as far as Iqaluit is from Toronto, in size, geographical location, and cosmopolitan-ness. The ages in the middle have found me, gripped me, and turned me into a combination of a cynic and a paranoid freak.
Every night, before bed, I check the locks. Sometimes a couple of times. Whenever I park the car, I go through a whole process of putting all the "good stuff" in the trunk, checking windows, the locks, even the parking brake. Worst, though, is when my two almost-adult-kids decide to take the car, or go out with a pack of friends. I practically bind myself to my cell phone, awaiting their text for a ride home. Better that than a trip to the police station to bail them out.
Or worse.
Yeah, I think of worse. I ponder it, stress it, allow it to blossom into mutated versions of the-absolute-most-terrible-thing-that-can-happen-does scenarios.
All the alarm systems, and radio response units, and body guards won't help me. Because it's what I can't see, what they won't anticipate, that's what scares me the most.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Panic
Henna spent a great deal of her life in a state of panic. Of all of her emotions, this one was the easiest, quickest, and most intense. Combine this flaw with her exceptionally bad luck and she was a walking recipe for disaster stew.
If only one car was broken into in a parking garage it was hers. If lightning were to strike only one house, it would find its way onto her roof. If a pickpocket decided to rifle through only one purse in a large open market, her purse would call out to him to make himself at home.
So on a Wednesday in March, with a cold, brisk wind blowing from the north, and rain heavy in the clouds above, Henna decided she would be smart to stay home from work. After all, more accidents happened during poor weather. Her car, which she affectionately named "Bruce," would not appreciate being smashed to bits simply because Henna didn't want to waste a sick day that morning.
She spoke some reassuring words to Bruce in the driveway, just to be sure that he wasn't being replaced by a bus ticket, and then she slowly and carefully climbed the stairs to return to bed.
When she rested her head on her pillow, she could feel her heart pounding. Had she taken the stairs too quickly? Or was the panic creeping in. Would her boss be angry that she was away? If she called and changed her mind, would the weather cause her grief? Would Bruce be put in harm's way? What time was it?
She glanced at her alarm clock and at that very moment, the power failed. Gripping her blankets with white-knuckled urgency, she crawled further under their safety and tried to scare the panic monster away.
He was too hungry. Instead he devoured Henna's serenity like a starving dog attacking an unprotected store of meat.
If only one car was broken into in a parking garage it was hers. If lightning were to strike only one house, it would find its way onto her roof. If a pickpocket decided to rifle through only one purse in a large open market, her purse would call out to him to make himself at home.
So on a Wednesday in March, with a cold, brisk wind blowing from the north, and rain heavy in the clouds above, Henna decided she would be smart to stay home from work. After all, more accidents happened during poor weather. Her car, which she affectionately named "Bruce," would not appreciate being smashed to bits simply because Henna didn't want to waste a sick day that morning.
She spoke some reassuring words to Bruce in the driveway, just to be sure that he wasn't being replaced by a bus ticket, and then she slowly and carefully climbed the stairs to return to bed.
When she rested her head on her pillow, she could feel her heart pounding. Had she taken the stairs too quickly? Or was the panic creeping in. Would her boss be angry that she was away? If she called and changed her mind, would the weather cause her grief? Would Bruce be put in harm's way? What time was it?
She glanced at her alarm clock and at that very moment, the power failed. Gripping her blankets with white-knuckled urgency, she crawled further under their safety and tried to scare the panic monster away.
He was too hungry. Instead he devoured Henna's serenity like a starving dog attacking an unprotected store of meat.
Monday, 14 June 2010
Elves
Megan's favourite fantasy characters were elves. Something about the pointy ears and the immortality spoke to her need for more in her life.
Every night, once she had settled into bed and turned out the light, she would close her eyes and imagine worlds where she was an elf, and she would speak to the forest and run with her friends for hours without tiring. Her clothes were made of gossamer spun by fairies and her hair was long, soft, and straight.
While she played out the illusion in her mind, she would drift off, hoping that her dreams would bring the world alive and she would feel it, know it, live it. But her subconscious mind never cooperated. Instead she would dream of missing the bus or forgetting an exam and wake exhausted and miserable.
Elves knew how to live. Elves deserved more in life than a cubicle, quarterly reports, and the endless commute in gridlock back and forth every day.
And so, Megan brought the day dreams into the workplace. With a spreadsheet on her screen and her fingers randomly typing in numbers, she would live adventures with cloaks and daggers, arrows and wings, and soar above her mundane reality.
Every night, once she had settled into bed and turned out the light, she would close her eyes and imagine worlds where she was an elf, and she would speak to the forest and run with her friends for hours without tiring. Her clothes were made of gossamer spun by fairies and her hair was long, soft, and straight.
While she played out the illusion in her mind, she would drift off, hoping that her dreams would bring the world alive and she would feel it, know it, live it. But her subconscious mind never cooperated. Instead she would dream of missing the bus or forgetting an exam and wake exhausted and miserable.
Elves knew how to live. Elves deserved more in life than a cubicle, quarterly reports, and the endless commute in gridlock back and forth every day.
And so, Megan brought the day dreams into the workplace. With a spreadsheet on her screen and her fingers randomly typing in numbers, she would live adventures with cloaks and daggers, arrows and wings, and soar above her mundane reality.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Question
Billy Russet asked me the same question every single day of our sixth grade year. Didn't matter if the weather was cold or hot, if the teacher was in a good mood or mean, or if I was in my prettiest dress or ugliest, most worn-out clothes.
"Say, Donna, what's the worst thing you've ever done?"
I don't know if he was expecting me to try to out-do myself each day, maybe come up with a better "worst thing" as often as possible. Or maybe this was some kind of convoluted flirting. Or better yet, maybe his mind was wired differently than everybody else's brain.
I had heard rumours, from the other kids, about Billy's Dad. And how his Mom wasn't in the picture and he didn't know where she was or when she'd ever be back. Stuff like that has got to hurt. Maybe he wanted to know how bad other people were just to put his own life in perspective.
Funny how I thought about Billy today. Maybe because the headline in the paper talks about some lunatic who got jail time for setting puppies on fire. I mean, who sets puppies on fire? You've got to be some twisted kind of you-know-what to do something like that. It definitely qualifies as a "worst thing."
Or maybe, the guy is Billy.
No, the paper named him Jack.
I think I'll go back to eating my boring breakfast and thinking about people for whom a "worst thing" is running with scissors or borrowing your Dad's car and forgetting to put gas in.
That's a good one for today.
"Say, Donna, what's the worst thing you've ever done?"
I don't know if he was expecting me to try to out-do myself each day, maybe come up with a better "worst thing" as often as possible. Or maybe this was some kind of convoluted flirting. Or better yet, maybe his mind was wired differently than everybody else's brain.
I had heard rumours, from the other kids, about Billy's Dad. And how his Mom wasn't in the picture and he didn't know where she was or when she'd ever be back. Stuff like that has got to hurt. Maybe he wanted to know how bad other people were just to put his own life in perspective.
Funny how I thought about Billy today. Maybe because the headline in the paper talks about some lunatic who got jail time for setting puppies on fire. I mean, who sets puppies on fire? You've got to be some twisted kind of you-know-what to do something like that. It definitely qualifies as a "worst thing."
Or maybe, the guy is Billy.
No, the paper named him Jack.
I think I'll go back to eating my boring breakfast and thinking about people for whom a "worst thing" is running with scissors or borrowing your Dad's car and forgetting to put gas in.
That's a good one for today.
Monday, 24 May 2010
Day
In the light of day, Sylvia found patience, comfort, and if not happiness, at least a fragment of contentment. When the sun set, her perceptions darkened with the sky, turning her life into a mix of tears, fears, and misery.
Her mother, Patricia, tried to help Sylvia cope. She would bring her calming music, chocolate, and other treats. She would call her daughter after dinner and try to assist in the transition. But no amount of steering or sweets could do much to counter the physiological aspects of Sylvia's disorder.
Medication would help at times, but after about six months, Sylvia would build up a tolerance and the difficulties would return. Luckily, her doctor only worked during the day, so he was able to convince Sylvia to visit his office, try another treatment, and hope against hope that she might find a balance to her life.
Balance was as elusive as joy.
On a Tuesday in May, she found herself walking a different way home from work. The sidewalk had been torn up by the city for repairs, so in following the detour, she ended up stumbling across a pet shop. She had never been the puppy seeking type, nor did she melt at the sign of a mewing kitten. This shop had chosen, to her surprise, an iguana for the front window, and something about the way the creature would move and then be still, flit and then go stone-immovable, had called to Sylvia's sense of self. Here was a bipolar creature, just like herself. One that was just as comfortable in action, than in fear.
And so, by the time she reached her subway stop, she carried a cardboard box with breathing holes under her arm, and a litany of instructions for constructing a shelter under the other.
Her mother, Patricia, tried to help Sylvia cope. She would bring her calming music, chocolate, and other treats. She would call her daughter after dinner and try to assist in the transition. But no amount of steering or sweets could do much to counter the physiological aspects of Sylvia's disorder.
Medication would help at times, but after about six months, Sylvia would build up a tolerance and the difficulties would return. Luckily, her doctor only worked during the day, so he was able to convince Sylvia to visit his office, try another treatment, and hope against hope that she might find a balance to her life.
Balance was as elusive as joy.
On a Tuesday in May, she found herself walking a different way home from work. The sidewalk had been torn up by the city for repairs, so in following the detour, she ended up stumbling across a pet shop. She had never been the puppy seeking type, nor did she melt at the sign of a mewing kitten. This shop had chosen, to her surprise, an iguana for the front window, and something about the way the creature would move and then be still, flit and then go stone-immovable, had called to Sylvia's sense of self. Here was a bipolar creature, just like herself. One that was just as comfortable in action, than in fear.
And so, by the time she reached her subway stop, she carried a cardboard box with breathing holes under her arm, and a litany of instructions for constructing a shelter under the other.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Bland
Kim considered herself bland. Her definition had been built on all of the traits that she did not possess; all of the places she did not belong.
She was not a member of a visible minority, nor did she have an unusual weight, height, or appearance. Her job, as a high school teacher, made her one of tens of thousands in her province.
She was not rich, or poor for that matter, she no longer had a husband, and she did not belong to any clubs or organizations. She was an atheist, and even if she could be persuaded to believe in a higher power, her parents, and their parents before them, had all been such non-believers that Kim could not even pin a particular religious label on herself.
When she walked down the street, people did not notice her. Their eyes did linger on her figure or mock her appearance. She simply existed.
More boring than white bread, and just as tasteless, she belonged to no one, fit in nowhere, and could drop dead at any time and no one would notice she no longer inhaled and exhaled.
Remarkably, one evening, as she pondered the pathetic selection of television shows to watch, she decided that rather than picking up a good book to read, she would write one.
A memoire no less.
Because surely she was not the only bland person on the planet. And if she could somehow capture the quintessential essence of bland-dom, she would sell at the very least, a few hundred thousand copies of the book, one for every other bland person, who, like her, made their home in an English-speaking part of the world.
She opened a dollar store notebook, picked up a pen, and wrote, "I consider myself bland."
She was not a member of a visible minority, nor did she have an unusual weight, height, or appearance. Her job, as a high school teacher, made her one of tens of thousands in her province.
She was not rich, or poor for that matter, she no longer had a husband, and she did not belong to any clubs or organizations. She was an atheist, and even if she could be persuaded to believe in a higher power, her parents, and their parents before them, had all been such non-believers that Kim could not even pin a particular religious label on herself.
When she walked down the street, people did not notice her. Their eyes did linger on her figure or mock her appearance. She simply existed.
More boring than white bread, and just as tasteless, she belonged to no one, fit in nowhere, and could drop dead at any time and no one would notice she no longer inhaled and exhaled.
Remarkably, one evening, as she pondered the pathetic selection of television shows to watch, she decided that rather than picking up a good book to read, she would write one.
A memoire no less.
Because surely she was not the only bland person on the planet. And if she could somehow capture the quintessential essence of bland-dom, she would sell at the very least, a few hundred thousand copies of the book, one for every other bland person, who, like her, made their home in an English-speaking part of the world.
She opened a dollar store notebook, picked up a pen, and wrote, "I consider myself bland."
Monday, 17 May 2010
Guard
Vanessa stood in the lobby of the dentist's office, holding her credit card in one hand and her new mouth guard in the other. Dr. Ren had explained the instructions on how to use the device, as well as providing some helpful hints on how to keep it clean. But all that Vanessa could think about was how embarrassed she would be, the first time she went to bed beside Gus, her boyfriend of only three months, with this hunk of smelly plastic in her mouth.
The secretary applied the charge to the credit card. She must have noticed the dread seeping across Vanessa's face, because she said, "It's about as sexy as old people's feet."
"Exactly," said Vanessa. "My boyfriend won't be my boyfriend any more once he gets a load of this."
"It takes some getting used to, but after a while, you'll find you sleep better when you use it. If he cares about you, your comfort, and your future dental health, he'll understand."
"I'm not sure our relationship is that solid."
The secretary leaned in close. "So get up in the night to pee, and put the guard in. Make sure you're the first one up in the morning, and take it out before he sees it."
Vanessa shook her head. "I don't know if I want to be that sneaky."
"Use your judgement. And if you have any questions, don't hesitate to call."
"Thanks."
"No worries."
The secretary applied the charge to the credit card. She must have noticed the dread seeping across Vanessa's face, because she said, "It's about as sexy as old people's feet."
"Exactly," said Vanessa. "My boyfriend won't be my boyfriend any more once he gets a load of this."
"It takes some getting used to, but after a while, you'll find you sleep better when you use it. If he cares about you, your comfort, and your future dental health, he'll understand."
"I'm not sure our relationship is that solid."
The secretary leaned in close. "So get up in the night to pee, and put the guard in. Make sure you're the first one up in the morning, and take it out before he sees it."
Vanessa shook her head. "I don't know if I want to be that sneaky."
"Use your judgement. And if you have any questions, don't hesitate to call."
"Thanks."
"No worries."
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
Soft
Her hands had once been soft, like silken gloves on a china doll. But now, after years of soaking in detergents, scouring and scrubbing, they had turned to sandpaper-scored leather.
After Mitch died, her sister had encouraged her to date. What a farce! She hadn't even considered other men, hadn't looked at them, socialized with them, or even remotely enjoyed their company for a decade or more. The idea of scrutinizing them, running down a list of pros and cons, hoping to find some sort of spark or connection seemed not only absurd, but a complete waste of time.
Then along came Stephan. With his smooth words and kind disposition. After several encounters at the check-out desk of the library, they had decided to meet for coffee. And when he had leaned over to lay his hand on hers, he had flinched away almost immediately.
She considered explaining how she worked with her hands, but decided against it. She could have dug through her purse for some hand cream, but assumed the gesture was already futile.
When he excused himself to answer his cell phone, she shrugged and sipped at her latte. Perhaps he would return. If not, she had learned a valuable lesson.
After Mitch died, her sister had encouraged her to date. What a farce! She hadn't even considered other men, hadn't looked at them, socialized with them, or even remotely enjoyed their company for a decade or more. The idea of scrutinizing them, running down a list of pros and cons, hoping to find some sort of spark or connection seemed not only absurd, but a complete waste of time.
Then along came Stephan. With his smooth words and kind disposition. After several encounters at the check-out desk of the library, they had decided to meet for coffee. And when he had leaned over to lay his hand on hers, he had flinched away almost immediately.
She considered explaining how she worked with her hands, but decided against it. She could have dug through her purse for some hand cream, but assumed the gesture was already futile.
When he excused himself to answer his cell phone, she shrugged and sipped at her latte. Perhaps he would return. If not, she had learned a valuable lesson.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Laundry
Jesse hated doing the laundry. He despised it, loathed it, would wear the same shirt two days in a row, just to avoid the pile for one more day.
Part of the problem was the whole Laundromat issue. He truly felt that coin-washes were filled with losers, with the scum of society who were either too poor to afford their own machine, or two transient to keep one. This attitude stemmed from his upbringing, in an upper-middle-class family, for whom the word "want" never entered their vocabulary. He had grown up assuming this would also be his future lifestyle. However, his parents died, suddenly, without insurance, and to his surprise, with a massive reverse mortgage against their home that left him with virtually nothing.
Then, the infamous divorce, where his trophy wife decided she wanted to be something, or do something, or whatever the hell it was that she said she wanted. After the lawyers were through with him, they sent him an invoice for their services that would have killed a small animal if left opened on a counter. Oh, and also a schedule of monthly payments he had to pay to her, to make sure she stayed in the life she had grown accustomed.
Life sucked for Jesse.
And so, he found himself in the Laundromat, spending another Tuesday evening waiting for his clothes to finish in the dryer so he could slink out and hope to God that no one he actually knew would see him here.
Part of the problem was the whole Laundromat issue. He truly felt that coin-washes were filled with losers, with the scum of society who were either too poor to afford their own machine, or two transient to keep one. This attitude stemmed from his upbringing, in an upper-middle-class family, for whom the word "want" never entered their vocabulary. He had grown up assuming this would also be his future lifestyle. However, his parents died, suddenly, without insurance, and to his surprise, with a massive reverse mortgage against their home that left him with virtually nothing.
Then, the infamous divorce, where his trophy wife decided she wanted to be something, or do something, or whatever the hell it was that she said she wanted. After the lawyers were through with him, they sent him an invoice for their services that would have killed a small animal if left opened on a counter. Oh, and also a schedule of monthly payments he had to pay to her, to make sure she stayed in the life she had grown accustomed.
Life sucked for Jesse.
And so, he found himself in the Laundromat, spending another Tuesday evening waiting for his clothes to finish in the dryer so he could slink out and hope to God that no one he actually knew would see him here.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Potato
She had a severe addiction to the potato. Boiled, baked, scalloped, mashed. The presentation didn't matter so long as the potato ended up on her plate.
Her partner, Luigi, didn't quite understand, but he humoured her nonetheless. Can we have rice tonight? he would think to himself. These words would never reach his lips. After all, he loved her too dearly to risk the shock to her system.
One night, over brandies, Luigi and his lovely mother-in-law had shared a secret conversation of a childhood moment. The night Sarah had eaten rice, on a lark, and ended up in the hospital on a ventilator. The reaction could have simply been an alergy, but Sarah had taken it to heart.
Her partner, Luigi, didn't quite understand, but he humoured her nonetheless. Can we have rice tonight? he would think to himself. These words would never reach his lips. After all, he loved her too dearly to risk the shock to her system.
One night, over brandies, Luigi and his lovely mother-in-law had shared a secret conversation of a childhood moment. The night Sarah had eaten rice, on a lark, and ended up in the hospital on a ventilator. The reaction could have simply been an alergy, but Sarah had taken it to heart.
Friday, 30 April 2010
Ring
Shelly dropped her ring down the drain. This was not a deliberate act, one to show scorn to her husband for being such a deadbeat that she had to work the night shift as a custodian. No, this was an act of complete stupidity, mixed with a little bit of clumsiness and a dash of bad luck.
She told Lou, the foreman, about the incident, and he had laughed. Actual, gut jiggling guff-ahs, as though losing a wedding ring was not only perfect comedic timing, but it actually added to Shelly's humiliation and rank.
People like her didn't get a lot of breaks in life, as a matter of fact, they usually ended up in dead-end jobs, with loser partners, a mountain of debt, and a series of leech-ish children.
Shelly would likely be no different.
And her over-extended belly was a reminder to her, and everyone around her, that the baby part was about to begin.
She told Lou, the foreman, about the incident, and he had laughed. Actual, gut jiggling guff-ahs, as though losing a wedding ring was not only perfect comedic timing, but it actually added to Shelly's humiliation and rank.
People like her didn't get a lot of breaks in life, as a matter of fact, they usually ended up in dead-end jobs, with loser partners, a mountain of debt, and a series of leech-ish children.
Shelly would likely be no different.
And her over-extended belly was a reminder to her, and everyone around her, that the baby part was about to begin.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Vampire
All her life she had dreamt about vampires.
First, there had been the cute ones, like The Count on Sesame Street and Count Chocula. As she grew older, she decided that cooler vampires would be more fun, like the ones in the Meyer novels and the ones on television.
On her twenty-first birthday, feeling in the prime of her life, she decided that the notion of looking this great for all of eternity sounded pretty appealing. So every evening, once the sun went down (of course) she would troll the dark alleys, looking for that elusive rave, the one that was invitation only, where the truly cool people would hang out, stay up all night, do strange drugs, and attract all of the night creatures.
At first, this plan failed. She mostly found herself in the seedier parts of town, worrying for her safety, and spending the wee hours creeping through alley after alley, industrial park after industrial corridor, and finding little more than garbage, rats, and all manner of disgusting creepy crawlies.
One Tuesday, at precisely three-thirty-seven am, she stumbled across a huge metal door, behind which the unmistakable sound of music thumping brought joy to her heart. She knocked, and the quintessential sliding view-window showed her a pair of dark red eyes.
"Yes?" said the man.
"I'd like to join the party."
"Password," he demanded.
She took a chance, "Blood."
He opened the door, and sniffed at her hair as she entered their lair.
First, there had been the cute ones, like The Count on Sesame Street and Count Chocula. As she grew older, she decided that cooler vampires would be more fun, like the ones in the Meyer novels and the ones on television.
On her twenty-first birthday, feeling in the prime of her life, she decided that the notion of looking this great for all of eternity sounded pretty appealing. So every evening, once the sun went down (of course) she would troll the dark alleys, looking for that elusive rave, the one that was invitation only, where the truly cool people would hang out, stay up all night, do strange drugs, and attract all of the night creatures.
At first, this plan failed. She mostly found herself in the seedier parts of town, worrying for her safety, and spending the wee hours creeping through alley after alley, industrial park after industrial corridor, and finding little more than garbage, rats, and all manner of disgusting creepy crawlies.
One Tuesday, at precisely three-thirty-seven am, she stumbled across a huge metal door, behind which the unmistakable sound of music thumping brought joy to her heart. She knocked, and the quintessential sliding view-window showed her a pair of dark red eyes.
"Yes?" said the man.
"I'd like to join the party."
"Password," he demanded.
She took a chance, "Blood."
He opened the door, and sniffed at her hair as she entered their lair.
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