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.