Black woman, late 40s, with long red cornrows pulled back into a high bun, wearing a pink tank top, red and white patterned long skirt, sparkly sandals, and a long gold chain with a cluster of charms weighting the bottom. She peers out over bifocals, looking more at ease in early morning rush hour than those still at home in bed.

Light a Penny Candle, Maeve Binchy (Arrow)

Page 115:

Magnificent, like the leader of a procession, she marched in front of them back to the town and into the square, while Elizabeth and Donal followed. Donal’s face was wrapped up again in the scarf so no one else would see the giggles, and Elizabeth had one hand over her face. The other was holding Donal’s hand.

The wedding went off with barely a hitch, her youngest married into a kind family, his well-intentioned laundry piles now someone else’s problem.

Caucasian woman, early 60s, with pale complexion, painted lips and spiky, red hair. She empties her white wine glass and excuses herself from conversation, inching between an end table and the outstretched legs of a napping member, scotch glass slipping toward the end of his grasp. She brushes the front of her slacks and crosses the lobby into the gallery of books.

Faces on Places: A Grotesque Tour of Toronto, Terry Murray, designed by Ingrid Paulson (House of Anansi Press)

Page 93:

The most recent example of overtly Canadian content appeared in 1956 on the Crown Life Insurance Building on Bloor Street East. Reliefs appear at the western and eastern ends of the building — a deer family on the former, and a polar bear family on the latter.

Her grandson has a game small enough to carry in her palm. She plugs in a small disc and he helps her select the levels. She picks a weapon, the bow, and a sight appears. The dials up the audio. She hits the button and thunnng she’s high-fiving an eleven year old as a pool of pixilated blood pools at the feet of her stag.

Caucasian male, mid 60s, with white hair and full beard, wearing a brown suede jacket, white collared shirt and black jeans. His glasses sit comfortably low on the bridge of his nose. He is not one of the men in the portraits, but could be. (But would rather not be.) He is classic and male, at home in his leather boots. Just a guy who values craft, care and a gleeful attention to detail.

Wide Slumber for Lepidopterists, a. rawlings, designed by Bill Kennedy (Coach House Books)

With apologies. I know the spacing isn’t justifying the text…

Page 73:

habit of holding
shoulder blades
as wings
when at rest

transcribe
pins in ings if
wing veins

On the bay, coasting toward the waterfall. An outstretched branch leans heavy over the shoreline. He paddles under it, chin tipped, jaw slack, shoulders arching, the swollen mass bulbous, chalky-white like bird dung. He sits up and feels the sun glow against his bare shoulders, letting the current carry him to a dull trickle, away from nature’s piñata.

Middle Eastern male, mid 20s, on his way to 7 feet tall, with short dark hair, pointed nose and deep set eyes, wearing dark blue jeans and powder blue dress shirt, undone one button, pulling tight against his broad shoulders and pronounced chest.

The Ecology of Commerce, Paul Hawken (HarperCollins)

Page 2:

As long as we continue to ignore the evolutionary thrust and potential of the existing economy, the world of commerce will continue to be in a state of disorder and constant restructuring. This is not because the worldwide recession has been so deep and long, but because there is a widening gap between the rapid rate at which society and the natural world are decaying and the agonizingly slow rate at which business is effecting any truly fundamental change.

Next semester, he’ll go to London to take his Master’s. Arriving home, he’ll relocate to Halifax where his father and brother will show him his office, take him to dinner, too many bottles and the promise of a successful future. For now, though, all he can think about is the choke in his throat, the last kiss placed by his girlfriend on early morning unshowered skin before she left, her answer final.

Caucasian male, mid 20s, wearing a black shirt, black shorts and black boots. His hair is long and thin, patches of scalp showing through, a circular scar crowning his head. The length of his forearms are covered in year’s worth of welts and slashes, some raised and red.

The Gunslinger: The Dark Tower 1, Stephen King (Signet)

Page 37:

He came in the late afternoon on the day Nort died, and the wind was whipping it up, pulling away the loose top soil, sending sheets of grit and uprooted stalks of corn windmilling past.

A week later, he’s sitting in the same place, rocking, headphones siphoning thrash metal. His forearms are bound, all snuggily in swaddling cloths.