Caucasian woman, mid 40s, with close cropped bleach blonde hair, wearing a long, fluffy black and white coat and ear muffs.

Running With Scissors, Augusten Burroughs (Picador)

Page 121:

Her feet are stretched out in front of her, buried in the plush, matted fur of her dog, Zoo. When she wriggles her toes, it looks like there are animals deep inside Zoo’s fur. The sofa fabric is threadbare, so smooth from wear it’s slick.

“Thanks for the ride, man.”

They hopped out of the truck, cutting through a ditch behind the ferris wheel, onto the fair grounds past the long line up to get in. Ronnie took off his jean jacket, a satin vest underneath, his white sleeves rolled up to reveal toned triceps and a fresh burn. They passed the games to the snack shack and they ordered Cokes and pretzels. KISS’s “I Was Made For Lovin’ You” played on the radio. Gregg sucked the salt from pretzel, reminding himself to go slow, it gave him the hiccups, and tried to take in the flurry of activity. At night, everything felt bigger, heightened—hyper.

Strolling the grounds they passed a man with sleeves of tattoos pounding the holes of the groundhog game with an unreasonable amount of aggression. His girlfriend, or daughter, it was hard to tell, stood to the side smiling weakly.

“Best to just let him work it out.”

Gregg fiddled his camera out of his pocket and held it waist-high. After he’d taken the shot he apologized, like it had been a mistake and jogged ahead to catch up with the guys. He stopped briefly to watch a small boy with a floppy red afro struggle upside down on the Spaceball, a human gyroscope.

The attendant grew impatient.

“If I spin you any longer you’ll hemorrhage.”

“Go again!” the boy screamed.

“That’s it,” the attendant said. “You’re done.”

The camera’s flash filled the foreground, the latent rage of an aging carny developing on a frame of black and white film.

Caucasian male, mid 20s, with curly brown hair and a full winter’s beard, wearing a second-hand overcoat and red scarf, beige corduroys, cut off at the hem and brown leather shoes. For the record, on my car I counted 23 readers. Pretty bloody cool.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez (HarperCollins Canada)

Page 261:

While Aureliano Segundo ate with great bites, overcome by the anxiety of victory, The Elephant was slicing her meat with the art of a surgeon and eating it unhurriedly and even with a certain pleasure. She was gigantic and sturdy, but over her colossal form a tenderness of femininity prevailed and she had a face that was so beautiful, hands so fine and well cared for, and such an irresistible personal charm that when Aureliano Segundo saw her enter the house he commented in a low voice that he would have preferred to have the tourney in bed and not at that table.

“I’ll make coffee,” she said, jumping from the tossed white sheets at 7:36 on a Saturday morning. Yesterday she was doing rounds by now. This glorious morning, resplendent with cuddles (and cuddles lower still), was a vacation.

“I’ll make coffee and warm some scones. And steak. Do you like steak?”

Yes, I like steak.

I raised my arms over my head and took in the room. In the light, well, it looked bright. Everything was white, save for a charcoal drawing on the wall. Dark, with a story.

“Shower if you want to. And feel free to check your email.”

The CBC filled the apartment, the pleasure of living in an apartment with concrete walls. Meat hit the pan, its spit mixing with mine. God, I’d forgotten how much I loved steak. I rolled out of bed, into the clothes on the floor and stumbled towards the bathroom. No, the kitchen. This moment only comes once. I leaned over her shoulder — “Smells good.” — and we shared that first lazy Saturday morning, Hello, we’ve met, kiss.

She smiled shyly, wielding a butcher’s knife and let her head rest against my chest.

Hispanic woman, late 20s, wearing a long wool coat and black scarf. Her lush brown hair is pushed up under a tweed cap, loose strands dangling around large silver hoops. The tattoo on the base of her neck appears to be a 45 rpm record spindle.

The Writing Life, Annie Dillard (Harper Perennial)

Page 17-18:

The written word is weak. Many people prefer life to it. Life gets your blood going, and it smells good. Writing is mere writing, literature is mere. It appeals only to the subtlest senses–the imagination’s vision, and the imagination’s vision, and the imagination’s hearing–and the moral sense, and the intellect. This writing that you do, as if you were dancing next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else. The reader’s ear must adjust down from loud life to the subtle, imaginary sounds of the written word. An ordinary reader picking up a book can’t yet hear a thing; it will take half an hour to pick up the writing’s modulations, its ups and downs and louds and softs.

She draws her fingers across the page; the topography of each word builds toward a vision. She leans forward, closer, fingers moving swiftly from margin to margin. Her head tilts now, her brow restly gently on her knuckles. Her commitment to the page is almost unbearable; the pads of her fingers are seared with silent counsel. She gasps and lifts from the page, falling back into her chair, giggling.

She draws her fingers across her lips; a coquettish grin rolls across her face.

Caucasian man, mid 40s, with a conservatively wide part in his greying hair, wearing a worn leather motorcycle jacket, white and black plaid scarf, black jeans and brown hiking boots. He reads his book from his lap, cradled in his long fingers, his wide thumbs acting as book ends.

The Inheritance of Loss, Kiran Desai (Penguin Canada)

Page 56:

The sound of the cook talking reached the judge’s ear as he sat over chess in the drawing room. When he thought of his past, he began, mysteriously, to twitch. Every bit of him filled with a burning sensation. It roiled within until he could barely stand it.

Breakfast was strawberry Pop Tarts. The boy and Uncle sat in the kitchen blowing on the filling, rolling the toasted pastry around their mouths like it was hot coals. Uncle threw his down on the paper towel opting for coffee alone. The boy walked his fingers across the table and grabbed the leftover, holding it to his chest like he was planning to store it for the long season ahead. Uncle straightened up to scold him, but the boy had started nipping away at the tart like a little beast, reveling in his tiny victory. Was he snorting? Uncle wondered.

He saw a glimpse of the boy’s mother in those mischievous eyes.

He recalled living on the beach when they were young. It was the summer; their mother had called it a vacation, a whole summer down by the lake. He’d gone out into the surf, far too far. It was his sister’s job to make sure he didn’t go astray. He giggled, wading further. A succession of waves had come in and he struggled to stay above water. The shore sucked him under and spit him out, over and over. He’d scanned the shore looking for her; she would come get him. When he found her, she was standing by the tent, their mother fast asleep inside, fading. His sister had just stood there watching him bob in and out of the sight, her eyes as murky as the lake water. Uncle caught himself staring at the boy with hatred. Lord in heaven, he thought.

Please don’t let the kid have it too.

Caucasian woman, late 30s, brown hair in a tight bun, wearing a black parka and blue and green scarf. Her mittens are stuffed into her pockets. To keep her hands free to turn the page, she bites the lip of her Starbucks cup.

A Spot of Bother: a Novel, Mark Haddon (Doubleday)

Page 38:

Jean felt ashamed. As any sane person would. If you kept quiet about it you felt like a liar. If you told the story you felt like something from a circus.

They switched places, her elder sister taking the top bunk. The two of them figured this would keep the younger sister safer. She wasn’t as likely to have accidents if she didn’t have so much space around her. She didn’t like being enclosed, but she couldn’t disagree; this made sense. When the parents asked why the change, the elder sister panicked, chirping, “If cleanliness is next to godliness, then she doesn’t deserve to sleep so close to Heaven!” The parents seem to accept this and closed the door. The younger sister kicked the bottom of her sister’s bunk.

“What was that?!”

The elder sister swung her head over the bed, her hair hanging loose as vines.

“You want me to tell them the truth?”

“…No.”

“Then go to sleep.” She propped herself back on the top bunk. “Maybe you should wear Mom’s ankle weights.”

The younger sister scowled at the bottom of her sister’s bunk. All she had to do was get through the night. That would show her. She closed her eyes and dared sleep to come swiftly.

Two hours later, she awoke to the urgent whispers of her sister, standing on a chair trying to reach her. Her face was pressed against the ceiling, her body levitating in the night.

“Dammit…”

Caucasian male, early 40s, with receding brown hair, full beard and round glasses, wearing a brown jacket and leather gloves. His bookmark is a locket bearing the image of a young girl with curly blonde hair wearing a sombrero.

Stanley Park, Timothy Taylor (Vintage)

Page 89:

Onward to Crosstown. Dinner service was accelerating towards him as he plunged through downtown. Past the Inferno Granville with its smell of burnt coffee and its canned jazz.

In the late 80s, my mother arrived home from two weeks in New Orleans. I imagine she came in late, out the sliding door of the van that carried her and a half dozen other travelers home late evening. Dragging her suitcase, before the days of wheels, up the brick walkway, over the crab apples it was my job to sweep, onto the front stoop, I surprised her as she jiggled her keys in the front door. A handmade card waited for her on the kitchen table along with phone messages and mail organized by urgency.

You look so tired, she said. You should be in bed.

She dragged her suitcase four tha-thumps up to her bedroom. She unzipped her bag and told me to wait in the living room. She changed into her lounge robe and slippers, took off her make up and came down the stairs with bags of trinkets. She pulled out a vinyl record, taking it gently from the sleeve and placing it on the turntable. The needled scratched across the grooves until it stuck. A muffled introduction, then clapping. A heel counted down the beat and a bar full of instruments launched into a synchronous plunka-plunka-plunka-plunka. My mother unwrapped the other gifts.

You can have some taffy but only a small piece.

Then the voice rang in. And my mother watched my reaction.

Can you imagine what that was like? she said. We had a tiny table in the back, right by the washroom. We kept trying to leave but they told us we wouldn’t be sorry. Can you even imagine?

The woman rawled through the lyrics like an animal in heat or a sob.

How old is she?

At least ninety, maybe older.

We continued to listen well into the night, taffy dissolving in our teeth, our tongues keeping time against the roofs of our mouths, our heels counting out the plunka-plunka-plunka-plunka.

Caucasian woman, early 20s, maybe late teens, very petite, under 5′, with long blonde hair under a multi-coloured striped hat with pom pom, wearing a red vest and purple scarf. She has a tiny stud in her left nostril and wears a leather cuff on her right wrist. Her fingernails are each a different colour and I wonder if she watches Dexter. I shake off the vision, turning my focus to the young woman occupying the next row of seats. So that’s where the smell is coming from.

Shopaholic & Sister, Sophie Kinsella (Dell)

Page 188:

At last I select some black leggings with retro piping up the sides, plus a white T-shirt and my fab hi-tech trainers that I got in the states. They cost quite a lot, but then, as the leaflets point out, they are biomechanically balanced with a dual-density mid sole.

With her head down she just looks like any other girl, a little tired, on her way home from a long day. Her part is a bit greasy, the ends of her hair split and frizzy. Her complexion seems healthy but when she lifts her gaze you can see she’s exhausted and ill. The bags under her eyes are swollen; the whites of her eyes are jaundice. The Rottweiler at her foot wears its obligatory muzzle. The girl leans over and grabs the dog’s snout, wrestles it a bit, as if to assure the other passengers that she knows the law. The dog looks at her with sad eyes; not knowing what she did wrong this time. She strains her neck a second longer then places her head back on the subway car floor. A juice box sits close by and she extends her tongue for a quick taste.

The girl’s parka is unzipped low. It doesn’t appear that she’s wearing much underneath. Two newborn Rottweilers nuzzle her cleavage. She talks to them. Coos. Scolds. Occasionally she flashes a gritty smile as new passengers board at each station. On the chair beside her sits a rumpled take out bag from McDonald’s. Beside that a Starbucks napkin. Beside that a Tim Horton’s cup. She’s been riding the subway all day, trying to keep her babies warm, trying to get them to a home before nightfall. The mother sits up and digs into the girl’s coat, licking the pups in long strokes. The girl pats her head and tosses another smile to us. Our eyes meet. I do something with my face; I’m not sure what; a grin, I hope. But I’m fearful that I’ve betrayed pity. I have my headphones on. She mouths something.

Caucasian male, late 30s, with short brown hair growing out of a close shave, wearing a long, black overcoat, teal scarf and leather gloves. His left ear bares the indentation of an old piercing. A series of scribbles cover the side of his grande paper cup.

Blackfly Season, Giles Blunt (RandomHouse)

Page 238:

One good thing about coming to this abandoned house and its swamp of nostalgia: It kept her thoughts–for a few minutes, anyway–off the more present memories, which ran through her mind like movie trailers.

Churning up the gravel of her driveway, she’s safe at home. She hopes her lover is still asleep. (27 years and he’s still her lover.) She likes to wake him, taking roll call of all his fingers and toes, brushing the soft curl of hair from his forehead, waiting for his sleepy eyes to open and focus. Leaping towards the cottage, she stops short in the screen door, looking through a break in the trees to see her young neighbour–all golden curls, missing teeth and sky blue eyes–appearing to run endless laps around the tire planter of her front yard. Round and round, with no sign of stopping, and happy as any child from that house could be. They aren’t permitted to speak to the neighbours and they’ve become accustomed to playing games in silence, their peels of laughter muted into crinkly expressions of silent joy. She feels such fondness for this girl that her stomache aches. Once more around and the little girl looks up and smiles before being ushered inside with a firm clasp on her shoulders.

The woman continues inside, removing her sandals, thankful for the smooth shag of mismatched carpets under her toes, this hideaway pieced by pieces of old furniture and discarded end tables. They haven’t even put in a kitchen sink; it’s been this way for two decades and they see no reason to change it now that it’s theirs. Friends laugh that a dartboard has been their most urgent addition. Insulation bulges through the rafters and mould has started to collect on the dry wall beside the tub. Bats nest in the attic, and moths live in the shingles, but nothing beats a sleep in the woods to convince you that tomorrow “nothing” will be the order of the day. She bursts into the bedroom, onto the bed. Wispy bits at the hairline? Check. Gentle cluck bundled in the back of his throat? Check. Hands tucked under a cherubic cheek? Check. 17,836,242 freckles on his shoulders? Check. All here.

All good.

Asian woman, mid 40s, wearing a black parka and red silk scarf. She holds the book high with both hands, her face obscured by the unmistable cover. To think, there was a time when we didn’t know exactly what this young boy looked like. I step in a bit closer and peer over. She is smiling gently, completely consumed. She loves it, you can tell. She loves every last bit of it.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, J.K. Rowling (Raincoast Books)

Page 83:

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.

They sit at the red light. The father drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, staring blindly through the intersection. The car rolls.

“Dad,” the son mumbles, pressing the ball of his foot into the car mat.

The father hits the brakes and checks the rearview, his neck turning beet red. He looks at his son, dreading his ex-wife’s reaction. One night a week. Pick the kid up from school and drop him home the following night; that’s all he has to do. She is gonna flip, he thinks. Worse, she’s gonna do that thing. Oh, that thing with the, the look, and the, the, the voice. The light turns green and he peels into a sharp U turn.

“You still like Chuck E. Cheese, kiddo? You loved it as a kid. Change in plans; we’re goin’ to Chuck E. Cheese! Have some pizza, some sodas, play some skee ball. You remember the skee ball? I’ll let ya have all my tickets!”

The son looks at the dashboard display. 5:35 P.M. Almost late for dinner.

“Dad…’

The father hits the on-ramp, twenty kilometres over the speed limit by the time he reaches the end. He just can’t face the look. The look when she sees her boy, fresh stitches across his forehead.

“Son…” he starts, gripping the wheel tight and taking his foot off the gas. He remembers himself as a ten year old boy, defending mysterious scrapes and bruises. He’d begged the police officer to tell his mother he’d fallen off his bike. She’d already warned what would happen if he jumped trains once more. He exhales loudly, switching on the directional, taking the off-ramp at a crawl. His boy wouldn’t jump trains, but he’d try to fly. A dreamer, always had been. Slight and scrawny, his nose in books all day and night.

“O.K., this is how it’s gonna work. You’re gonna tell your mother you fell at school, behind the school, where no one saw you. Tell her you were wearing those damn headphones and didn’t pay attention to where you’re going, alright?”

The son shrugs, shifting uneasily in his seat as they turn onto his street. They pull up to his house. The front door opens. Her arms are folded. The boy reaches for the door handle, one foot on the curb. His father grabs his forearm. He remembers.

“O.K., here’s the thing. You’re gonna let me do all the talking. I’ll think of something.”

His son looks at him, nodding. His father tightens his grip. He doesn’t know how to be a father to this boy, he can only remember what it was like to be one. He’s still worried about the kid, looking for the right way to ask, because he has to ask: What on God’s green earth would compel you to run at a wall?!”

Asian woman, late 20s, long black hair twisted into a lazy ponytail, wearing a grey overcoat and scarf, teetering on implausibly high-heeled black suede boots. I look at these boots and all I can see are organized elementary school outings to the local skating rink, my ankles bent outwards, turning in on myself as I hopelessly attempt, of all things, crossovers around the bend. Her bookmark is a worn, almost soggy, postcard of Jupiter.

Walk in the Light & Twenty-Three Tales, Leo Tolstoy (Orbis Books)

Page 235:

Only there is one special custom in his kingdom; whoever has horny hands comes to table, but whoever has not, must eat what others leave.

Late Wednesday evening in the church basement the three young teenagers took a thirty-minute break from their weekly rehearsal, setting aside their foam puppets, the smell of adherent still toxic in the kitchen next door. Sunday School Puppet Harvey’s moustache had fallen off; another’s hair, strings of brown yarn, had thinned requiring a touch up, other strings of yarn not quite the same colour. The group’s coordinator had gone up to the chapel while they rummaged through the storage room for sports gear. Out came the gym mats and impromptu Judo lessons. “Come at me from behind. Just come at me!” Plastic hockey sticks and orange rubber balls lined the walls, a basketball rolling to the end zone. “It’s the key, not the end…Just give me the ball!” Retreating to the closet to look for the Nerf football she pulled the pastor’s son, a good deal younger, close. She watched the mole on his neck bob, ba-dump, ba-dump. Her hair was short and greasy. She wore purple velvet knickers, a starched white blouse with a frilly collar and oversized beige leggings bunched up in the buckles of her patent leather sandals. The tetracycline had done wonders, only the occasional welt brewing under the skin on her chin. His hair parted firmly down the middle. He wore black corduroys and a white baseball tee with burgundy sleeves. She put her hand on his crotch. He yipped. “I’ve been practicing our number for your birthday party. I wore the Ace Frehley make up last night. The paint makes my teeth look yellow.” She pulled his hips to hers and told him to open his mouth. He obliged, willingly, holding his breath. Music blared over the sound system:

Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory.
Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory.
Rise. And. Shine. And. CLAP. Give God the glory, glory.
Children of the Lord.