Caucasian male, mid 40s, with shaggy brown hair, wearing a rumpled blue dress shirt, rolled at the sleeves, cargo pants and leather sandals. A small leather bound notebook weights his chest pocket. He has the freshly rosed cheeks of one week’s vacation.

Divisadero, Michael Ondaatje (McClelland & Stewart)

Page 78:

What night gave Rafael was a formlessness in which everything had a purpose. As if darkness had a hidden musical language. There were nights when he did not bother to even light the oil lamp that hung in the doorway of his trailer. He reached for the guitar and stepped down the three laddered steps into the field, carrying a chair in his other hand.

After the kids are asleep, his wife beside the fire with her book, he steps off the deck, landing heavy in the sand, and teeters out past the stretch of kitchen light toward the shoreline. Knee deep in surf, he feels the curl against his toes, the tug on his calves. He drops the glass of scotch and wonders when he forgot to stay standing.

Asian woman, mid 20s, with broad, black frames, wearing a fitted short sleeved white tee and black dress pants, long, black hair tied into itself in a firecracker ponytail.

Michael Redhill, Consolation (Anchor Canada)

Page 73:

The man at the back of the store was his own father’s age. He was drying his hands on a cloth, both of his sleeves rolled up, and looked our over the scene in his shop. The scents of mixing alcohol and carbonized sugar wafted through the space, a smell that spoke of industry.

The simple satisfaction of enjoyable and challenging work, a high metabolism, free board in her parent’s house, and a photogenic pug. It leaves reserves, dedicated energy to her books and reading, her truest pleasure. She’s a Lucky One and knows it.

Caucasian male, late 20s, in navy blue suit and tie, with short brown hair, a swirling cowlick the deciding factor in where his part lands.

The Rainmaker, John Grisham (Dell)

Page 323:

The neighbors are overcome with curiosity and lean on the chain-link fence not twenty feet away. A loud radio down the street blares Conway Twitty, but it’s not a distraction, yet. It’s Saturday morning, and the hum of distant lawn mowers and hedge trimmers echoes through the neighborhood.

He’s caught in a cloud of his own cologne–the cool breath of his wife still lingering at the base of his neck–smelling like the man he always hoped he’d become.

Caucasian girl, 9, wedged in a hammock, wearing blue hoodie, shorts and a floppy Girl Guides hat with buttons, Garfield and The Pepsi Challenge. Her sister, 3, stands at the edge of the frame with short, curly hair, wearing a beige cable knit sweater and a bemused expression intended for their father photographer, her tight fists blurred by emotion.

The Bunnicula Collection, James Howe (Atheneum)

About page 15:

Mrs. Monroe picked up the bowl of milk and moved toward the kitchen. Chester followed her every movement with his eyes, which now seemed to be popping out of his head. When she reached the kitchen door, she turned back and said, “Let’s not have any more arguments. We’ll compromise. He’s a bunny and we found him at a Dracula movie, so we’ll call him Bunny-cula. Bunnicula!”

The chipmunk scours the rhododendrons, pawing empty peanut shells, finding a stray nut and pushing it deep into its cheek. Overhead a rumble, sudden, fast and airborne dachshund belly flops at the base of the stairs, ready for anything.

Caucasian woman, 30s, wearing black pants and a purple top. She laughs easily, although alone. She’s familiar, although not in the production. She’s been here before. Her comfort is an absence of expectation. She’s here to see how others will react.

FOE programme, draft89

Page 4:

Jennifer Neales, Con Artist

This is Jennifer’s first production with draft89. She recently returned from Japan after four years of teaching English and performing on stages across Osaka, Kyoto and Kobe. She sends thanks out to her family and friends for their continued support.

Everybody lies.

Invited into open space and a soundtrack reminiscent of Philip Glass. We huddle close together, knees and backs touching, leaning forward, crouching, protective, the audience on display at the centre of a tiny room. I look at the woman across from me, the man beside her, and I hear it: It wasn’t only the once.