Caucasian woman, early thirties, with blonde hair pulled back in a clip. She wears a thick platinum wedding ring and natural polish on freshly manicured nails. Her lip gloss matches. Stilo. Her nostrils are small and dainty and she suddenly seems familiar in a, Oh, don’t tell me…Izzy from Grey’s Anatomy! Thank god, that didn’t take long.

Two Little Girls in Blue, Mary Higgins Clark (Simon & Schuster)

Page 218:

“Then this is it for us. Good luck, Clint.” The Pied Piper broke the connection, waited, then dialed the number of a private plane service. “I need a plane to leave in one hour from Teterboro, to land at the airport nearest to Chatham on Cape Cod,” he ordered.

He holds the pole at arm’s length and shoulder height, snapping his Metro to get the page to stand straight. His fingers are smaller than I would have imagined, his nails tiny and swollen, alternating hang nails. He grips and regrips the pole and it’s clear that he’s not sure of himself, his gravity in this car, in this situation. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him standing anywhere but in the door, that one time sitting, and this far from her. His back has always been to something. Now he’s wide open and out of sorts. There’s something more though, an edge to his face. The softness is missing. I watch his reflection. He looks up, jerks his head around and, finding me, settles. We consider one another. I watch as he looks away from my reflection, looking directly at me now, and smiles. The corner of my mouth twitches, my half-smile, uncommitted. I see my chest exhale quickly. I’m wearing headphones but it occurs to me that outside the music I’ve made a little noise that signals a short laugh. He goes back to his paper and I turn to face him. There it is. He’s shaving. Within the last week. A strip of stubble that, on him, looks like dirt. From boy to man. Is this why she stands over there?

She sneezes, once, twice, and looks into her glove, then at me. Apparently, I’ve blessed her.

Caucasian woman, early 20s, with multiple facial piercings, notably around the mouth, wearing a long black coat, fingerless green gloves and teal leggings with black running shoes.

Wicked, Gregory Maguire (ReganBooks/HarperCollins)

Page 19:

But even with these effects of light and atmosphere, the midwives couldn’t deny what they saw. Beneath the spit of the mother’s fluids the infant glistened a scandalous shade of pale emerald.

There was no wail, no bark of newborn outrage. The child opened its mouth, breathed, and then kept its own counsel. “Whine, you fiend,” said the crone, “it’s your first job.” The baby shirked its obligations.

“Tenants Forced Out in Morning Fire”

The firefighter in the newspaper photo looks into the lens as he rushes through the lobby, residents huddling against the wall behind him, bundled in blankets and coats. One woman has thick curlers rolled loosely throughout her hair. She looks down, a gentle expression on her face. A small girl stands a few feet away, under foot of the firefighter. She wears galoshes and a shiny winter coat with a large hood fringed with white faux fur. The reports say the smoke was so thick firefighters couldn’t find the doors to some apartments. The smoke had billowed up through the garbage chute pouring out at each floor. The basement flames knocked down, the firefighters turned their efforts to clearing the smoke from corridors and apartments.

The girl in the photo only appears to be under foot. In reality, she’s hiding. Christmas has just passed. There was a pink iron and ironing board, a pink oven in which to bake single serving circular cakes, a pink mixer and bowl, and a pink broom set. The girl had propped open the ironing board and tried, at the age of four, to imagine a husband and family. She’d imagined the apron, the days full of domestic tasks, pot roasts and marshmallow jelly moulds.

In the basement, the superintendent had lit a cigarette, rules be damned. The chute had opened and a flutter of Woodworking had fallen into the basin. Cursing to himself, he’d leaned over the edge and grabbed a fistful of the magazines to recycle. The ash of his cigarette had landed on top of the heap.

The little girl was absentmindedly running the iron back and forth over a paper towel in place of a dress shirt when she began to cry. She didn’t know why she was crying. But it felt like something this woman would do. She’d collected the pink things and walked down the hall to the garbage room. She’d pushed them down the slide, the door slamming hard, scaring her. The broom had soared groundward, landing in a spark.

She was certain.

Caucasian male, early 40s, wearing gold rimmed glasses and a black fleece over a navy blue business suit. The handle of a squash racket sticks out the zipper of his gym bag.

Brandenburg, Henry Porter (Orion Books)

Page 250:

He drank three beers and began to despair of the Russian coming. He also decided that the man in the group of five, right next to him, who wore the blue corduroy cap and who’d uttered the most vitriol about the scenes at the station, was taking too much interest in him for comfort’s sake.

He sat bent over in the front row, hands stretched out like a catcher, bobbing side to side, issuing the odd punctuation. Yes! Get to the–! Watch her; watch her! Ohh! Yes! Another point won, he exclaimed, That’s my boy! The girl came to the back of the court, tapping her racket to get the attention of the ref, a muted, “Some quiet, please?” her repeated request before shooting a glance at the father. She didn’t like it anymore than he did. Under 16 and stuck playing the boys in tournaments. But this was the final and her opponent stood 6′ 5″, weighed twice as much as she did and had the bend and reach of a rubber band. Did she really need the kid’s father barking from the sidelines?

The son served. The ball lobbed high falling to her backhand in the corner. She swiped at the air, cracking the wall and swearing. The father clapped his meaty paws. The crowd was starting to get behind the son.

Another serve, this one straight to her gut followed by an apologetic shrug. The ball rolled off her. He flipped it up and motioned to her to switch sides. His back heel touched the line of the box and she felt her fingers twitch. Just one more inch and he’d be fouled. The ball landed just short of the line and she held her ground. The ref called point.

“It was short!” she yelled. The father’s face exploded into a host of hungry eyeballs. One point to win.

The son stepped into the box, rocking, looking over his shoulder to see which foot she was favouring. Before he’d even made contact she’d leapt to centre court, her stroke ready. Her wrist snapped, morphing the ball into a blur of mangled rubber, off the front wall and–snap!–into the boy’s nose.

As she left the court, the father mopping the blood away from his son’s shoes, she accepted the nods of the crowd. Still, winning by default didn’t feel like winning at all.

Sweet! This entry on The Law of Dreams by Peter Behrens (House of Anansi Press) has been shortlisted for Post of the Week. Stay tuned until Sunday to learn if it’s…erm…the Post of the Week!

This is a great concept. Introducing blogs via a strong individual post. Because we all know what it feels like when we get hooked on that certain something that makes us a fan, coming back for more, lovin’ it. Very cool.

Thank you Post of the Week!

In twenty minutes I’ll be prerecording a phone interview for “Wireless Account” a biweekly show on CFRU 93.3 FM, Campus and Community Radio in Guelph. I’m looking forward to it. The advance list of questions were thoughtful and on the mark, so it should be a nice, casual chat!

When I know the deets, the 411, the scivvy, the “when it will be aired”, I’ll post again. Until then, I’m trying hard not to eat cheese. It messes with my voice. Makes me schmecky.

Caucasian woman, mid 50s with blonde bob, wearing a long purple overcoat with poppy, carrying a nylon thatched bag baring the image of an old leather golf bag.

The Outstretched Shadow, Mercedes Lackey & James Mallory (Tor Books)

Page 76:

The war-to-come was going forward nicely. Just as he and Mother intended, the Mage City continued to draw inward even as it expanded its territory, isolating itself not only from the Otherfolk, but also from all outside human contact, wallowing in its own spiritual decay. Lovely.

Mother: Look at your cousin Tess over at the crab dip. Girl looks like she could cry.

Son: Grandma choked on a strawberry seed. She’s still in the washroom.

Mother: How does someone choke on a strawberry seed?

Son: I say, don’t eat strawberries.

Mother: Oh god, look. Tess is going for the dip.

Son: Maybe she just needs to master the dip. I hear it’s one of the steps.

Mother: I don’t think that’s one of the steps.

Son: You sure?

Mother: Pretty sure. I think you have to call someone and tell them you love them.

Son: Anyone?

Mother: Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe? Oh, I really don’t know.

Son: Either way, she’s off the wagon. You can’t see the celery for all that dip.

Mother: I really don’t understand how Grandma can choke on something the size of a…

Son: …seed?

Mother: Why is your father standing over by the hedges?

Son: I don’t know, why is your husband standing over by the hedges?

Mother: Is he smoking?

Son: More to the point, how old is that girl?

Mother: Is that your second cousin? What’s her name?

Son: Jocelyn. No. Janice. No. Judy-Jeremiah. I really don’t know. “J” something. She’s really…

Mother: Bras can do so much these days.

Son: You should go get your husband.

Mother: You should go get your father. People will talk.

Asian woman, late 20s, with long dark hair and black rimmed glasses wearing a wool coat with red scarf and red fingerless mittens. Her oversized bag holds a tupperware container of rice and a margarine tub with a strip of masking tape across the top marking it as personal property.

Lullabies for Little Criminals, Heather O’Neill (HarperCollins Canada)

Page 91:

He was always squeezing a pillow against his chest. I came home to find him lying on the bed with no shirt on and the pillow on his chest. He reminded me of a doll whose stuffing was coming out.

I adjusted the fan so that it faced him. It had been blasting full against the wall, likely turned when he struggled back into bed, his one leg still off the edge, his head turned away as far as it could go to make up for rest. His headphones had slipped up to his temples, the foam ear pads propping up his bushy white eyebrows, floppy like bunnies. I pulled them away from his head like I was defusing a bomb, sleep didn’t come easily for him anymore, but then placed a hand on his sunken belly, searching for breath. He woke suddenly, unable to reach for the blanket, grabbing a pillow and holding it to his chest.

“How did you get in?” he yelled, his foggy eyes searching the room for an outline. “I have nothing!”

I called his name and tried to hold his hand. It was okay; I was allowed to be here. It was time to go to the bathroom. I would change the sheets.

Caucasian woman, early 30s, wearing a long wool jacket with high collar, tweed cap cocked to the side and knee high leather boots. Her hair is lush, full spirals, sleek and healthy, her skin vibrant and blushed, like she smothered half an avocado onto her head while snacking on the rest.

The Devil Wears Prada: a Novel, Lauren Weisberger (Broadway)

Page 198:

We were to refer to ourselves in the third person–if it was absolutely crucial for us to refer to ourselves at all.

They were back in the clouds. She still didn’t see how you could cut through the middle of them; above you, clouds; below you, clouds; over there, sun. It was as if she felt around the wall she would find a handle to pull and step out of her seat and onto the sky, like those figures from music videos sloshing across the top of a swimming pool. The cabin filled with the rush of recycled air. She thought it sounded like the little space heater from her old apartment, plugged into three lengths of extensions so she could carry it from room to room without turning it off.

She remembered the day they moved in. They were nauseous, at times having to sit down to catch their breath. The floor was uneven, the walls lopsided. From one end to the other the apartment appeared to sway like a crude set from an old film, Dr. Caligari. They sat on the floor with flattened ginger ale and Gravol, shredding a banker’s box into strips to fold over on top of one another, shoving them under the legs of tables, wardrobes and their bed until the room stopped spinning, on solid ground at last. They napped, waking to the late summer sun setting across their entwined legs.

Her new apartment was smaller, if possible, but she’d left in a hurry, not needing much room, just closet space for her escalating wardrobe. And she rarely cooked at home anymore, or ate, come to think of it.

The flight attendant rolled through the curtains, the dinner cart empty save for a few tin trays. She leaned into the aisle hoping to snag a meal. A hand shot up from the seat in front of her, four fingers, flashing: 4-4-4. An ever present reminder of her goal size. Five more hours stuck in this can, she fumed, forcefully flashing a finger of her own against the back of the woman’s chair: 1-1-1.

The head emerged over the seat, motionless skin framed in dark sunglasses.

“Darling,” it spoke. “Let’s not be too optimistic.”

We’re pressed, eight of us, in the doorway. One has taken a nip from the gin in his LCBO bag. The woman next to him has caked blood on the shoulder of her white coat. And the whole area smells like pigs-in-a-blanket. He slips in just as the doors close, shoved along until he has no choice but to break into our circle.

Caucasian male, mid 40s, with salt and pepper hair, wearing a black leather jacket, collar up, and black and grey striped scarf.

He’s been pushed against the door and struggles to keep his balance as we pull into the next stop. Four of us shuffle, delegating who goes where, who gets off soonest, who can afford to side step further into the car. He shoots me an apologetic glance and raises his arm past my shoulder to grip the glass behind me. He knows this means he’ll have to stand as close as a husband, but he holds his book up to create a barrier thinking it helps. This makes him uncomfortable and he lowers it, meeting my gaze.

“That felt rude,” he says.

“Actually,” I reply. “I know that book. What point are you at?”

He turns to the side. Waist to waist, we’re more like kindergarten play pals. He shares the book so that I’m holding one side while he supports the other, gripping it tighter than he needs to, as if to say, Don’t take it; I’m not done yet. He taps his finger on the paragraph and I read:

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

Page 111:

The floor was awash with spilled yellow meal, and the Bog Boys were feasting. They had hacked open sacks, broken into casks, smashed clay jars. Boys were cramming their mouths with ham and butter and fighting over beakers of honey and jam.

Street level, I pause, watching the flourescent man humming from the other side. Lunch had been salad, nothing to weight my stomach on a cold day. I picture those boys, famished, ravenous. I turn heel and walk the length of the Danforth stopping at a caterer advertising curried sweet potato and apple soup. Arriving home, I line up my purchases–soup, cranberry couscous, a loaf of macaroni and cheese and chocolate and butterscotch biscuits.

Full up, I boil the kettle, hot water to bathe the innards, and pull the book from my shelf.

Page 1:

Along the Scariff Road, heading northeast toward home, Farmer Carmichael rides his old red mare Sally through the wreck of Ireland.

Caucasian woman, early 40s, heavy set, wearing a navy blue coat over a mint green turtleneck. A writing pad sits open on her lap, her pen tucked between her fingers like a cigarette.

Yes Lives in the Land of NO: A Tale of Triumph Over Negativity, B. J. Gallagher, Steve Ventura (Berrett-Koehler Publishers)

Page 121:

Finding YES in the land of NO doesn’t mean that every rejection can be changed. Sometimes NO is the right answer. Sometimes NO is final.

On the edge of her dusty town she idled at the track, the arm down, the light flashing. It was 2 a.m. She dug her fingers into her scalp and scratched hard, all over. The hair net made her sweat, the tingling lasting until she showered, lathered in the lavender scent of her shampoo and bath gel. She looked forward to her bed, the comforter warm and fluffy, the cover soft against her cheek in the night. First thing through the door she’d fill the kettle, waiting as it boiled, straightening the fridge magnets, the row of post cards from her sister, the big city tax lawyer. Catching the kettle before the whistle she’d fill the hot water bottled tucked inside a fleece cozy. In bed, she held it on her lap, stroking it like a cat. Sometimes she held it in her armpit, imagining it as the head of a lifemate, someone she’d been with twenty years already, looking ahead to twenty more. Other times, she spooned the bottle and told it her secrets.

The drive-through had been quiet that night. But after those boys had made such a fuss, running in and out of the dark to bang on her window, the one getting a good grip on her wrist, she promised herself to make sure the manager knew she wouldn’t work the late shift alone anymore.

She rolled the car forward an inch forgetting this wasn’t a stoplight; she couldn’t wish Red to Green.