Caucasian man, tall and lean, dressed in beige pants and suit jacket. Baby soft, grey hair set against deep, blue eyes. Telling a joke in a quiet Irish lilt. Book in hand. His book. An award-winning book.

The Law of Dreams, Peter Behrens (House of Anansi Press)

Page 15:

As he walked home that afternoon, up the mountain, four young men–one a cousin–stopped him on the path. Before a blow had been struck, while the cousin was still boiling up insults, calling Carmichael’s mare a sorry lump of leather; a bag of goat bones; a mustard fuck, Fergus lowered his head and ran at him, butting him in the chest and knocking him down. Seizing a stick, he held off the others until his cousin stood up, grunting like a bull. Fergus threw away the stick and ran. They gave chase, screaming like a pack of hounds, and one of them finally brought him down with a brute shove that sent him sprawling.

They sat, six in total. One closed her eyes. One straightened her pink Polo shirt around the bulge she intends to lose in time for the holidays. Another set her smirk in place, like she knew what was coming. Each bore a baubled ring on her wedding finger. At home, husbands sat in front of the television, the computer, the back deck door, or bedroom wall, with a frozen dinner, leftovers, ordered-in pizza, or eggs for dinner.

“She drove into town with the girls from her book club. Some guy’s giving a reading. I don’t ask.”

Caucasian woman, early 40s, brown hair with blonde highlights, wearing an orange overcoat and scarf, and a striking black and silver ring. The umbrella in her lap is highlighter-green. Her hand is held to her mouth. She breathes into it like a mitt. The train empties and fills twice, and she sits, chest heavy, lost in her page.

Canoe Lake, Roy Macgregor (McClelland & Stewart)

Page 82:

The only light came from a bare bulb that hung on a cord from the ceiling. Eleanor had to use both hands and much of her strength to pull the bundles free, step outside the fire door, and spread them over the newsprint rolls. She then opened her purse and pulled out the notebook with the information from the graveyard.

Three hours in the emergency room you finally stand, frustrated, and march to the front desk.

“I can see the skin healing already. I had a tetanus shot just last year. I’d like to sign out.”

“A doctor will see you shortly. Please wait right here.”

A young man in a lab coat approaches and takes your hand like he’s your prom date. You wince.

“Really, it’s fine.”

“We’re just gonna take a quick look…” He unwraps the paper towels from your pinkie and a stream of blood empties onto a pile of file folders. She’s standing behind him. She goes pale. The doctor guides you gently, his hand low on your back. Over his shoulder he calls to the nurse, and her.

“Curtain two. You can come.”

She takes a moment. She can’t stand the sight of raw meat. This can only be worse.

Caucasian male, late 20s, short blonde hair with soft, frizzy bangs, wearing a black jacket, black pants, tight across the back, sporting a mag light, clip and Motorola walkie talkie. Security guard.

Dust jacket removed. Page 150:

Unsafe at Any Altitude: Failed Terrorism Investigations, Scapegoating 9/11, and the Shocking Truth About Aviation Security Today, Susan B. Trento & Joseph J. Trento (Steerforth)

When President Bush addressed the nation about 9/11, Kathy and Blythe sat watching the television and praying. Kathy was sick with worry that the president would bring up the company’s name. She prayed and prayed that he wouldn’t–and he didn’t. She said it was almost as if he stopped the speech before saying the word Argenbright.

You’ve been standing in front of the kitchen television since the second plane. You watch the first tower fall and cup your mouth with both hands because the windows are open and children are playing. You go to your computer and stare. You type.

Dear CBS,

The Big Brother Houseguests have the right to know what’s going on and should be given the free will to make their own decisions based on timely and accurate information. What was supposed to be a study of community is now taking away the right of your gameshow’s contestants to belong to one. You have an opportunity to show your viewers what a responsible media is all about.

Thank you.

Just a reminder, if you’re so inclined. Tune in to Freestyle tomorrow when I’ll be riffing on this here literary exploration and reading another entry.

Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. - 4:00 p.m. Newfoundland & Labrador
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I’m on at the beginning of the second hour of the show.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, brown curly hair pulled back in a clip, wearing a vest, knitted sweater, long jean skirt, thick stockings and hiking boots. Surrounded by Big Carrot bags. Eating an almond raisin bar. (3 for $5.99)

The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing, Melissa Bank (Penguin)

About 220 pages in:

In post-op, he will tell you he is honored that you threw up on him. He will stay with you in the hospital all day, every day, and as late as he can at night. After visiting hours, when the night nurse says he has to leave, he will hide there with you, closing the curtain partition and keeping his feet up on your bed.

You stand alone in your grandmother’s room collecting bags of dead batteries, wads of Kleenex balls and loose safety pins from the back of her drawer. You move to the bed lying in the indent of her form, facing the window to see what she would have seen, listening to the chatter of the schoolyard outside. She’d taken your hand and rubbed it over her lower stomache. “Can you feel it? It’s massive.” She’d gotten so tiny. She’d confessed she’d taken her wedding dress out of storage and tried it on again, an 81 year old woman looking at a reflection of herself sixty years earlier. Then she’d wrapped it up, walked down the hall and thrust it down the garbage chute.