(Originally published February 15, 2007)

Caucasian woman, late 40s, wearing a puffy, green jacket with hood and a powder blue hand-knitted cap. She has an under bite, her lower lip protruding to expose her bottom row of teeth. Her book is encased in bright green fabric, patterned with gift boxes and red stars. Her placeholder is crocheted, long and doily-like.

Misery, Stephen King (Signet)

Page 107:

Annie lapsed into a moody silence, staring into the corner. She had become unplugged. It was the first time this had happened in some days, and he wondered uneasily if it meant she was slipping into the lower part of her cycle. If so, he had better batten down his hatches.

She stands in front of the pot, stirring through the bubbles, the room lit only by the dim, yellow fan light. Steam rises in her face, her cheeks perspiring. She rests her hand on the stovetop and finds it warm to the touch, calming. She turns down the burner heat and lets the stew simmer, scratching her ankle with the heel of her piggy slipper. She draws a deep breath and exhales loudly, plunging her hands deep into her housecoat pockets. She watches the stew as it settles into a steady roll, peppers, onions and carrots turning up over thick chunks of cubed beef.

She goes to the cupboard and pulls out the Bisquick, ripping open the top. It puffs in her face, and she giggles, wiping the mix from her apron. She doesn’t feel like cleaning tonight. And this isn’t how she imagined it ending. There is so much food to share. It’s a shame he won’t be here to try some. Oh, but if she doesn’t do it tonight she’ll dread the coming day. She puts the lid on the stew and turns the heat right down, heading into the bathroom with gloves and garbage bags, the tub filled with the stripped bones of her dead lover.

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with short curly brown hair, wearing grey cotton lounge pants and green hoodie, relaxing on the couch, surrounded by pillows.

Pulpy & Midge, Jessica Westhead (Coach House Books)

Page 52:

Pulpy sat in front of his computer screen and typed ‘Food To Bring To The Potluck.’
He looked at that for a minute and then changed it to ‘Food I Will Bring To The Potluck.’
He cursored back. ‘Potluck (Food) Contribution.’
That one made him nod. He spaced down and typed ‘Employee Name’ and made a bunch of lines underneath. Then he hit Print.

On the other side of the south salmon pink wall there are windows. “There used to be windows,” they said when they showed her her new office, an old electrical room. “We have a key, too. We’ll need to come in from time to time.” She stood in the middle of the room while they pointed at panels she wasn’t allowed to touch and slowly spread her arms out, her reach ending at her wrists. “So, whatever you do,” they said, “don’t go near these. In fact, pretend like they’re not even here.” “Just like my windows,” she sighed.

Caucasian woman, late 40s, with short, salt and pepper hair, wearing blacks and greys. She doesn’t get more than a few words at a time before she looks up for a seat, an inner seat. She’s heading to the end of the line.

All Night Long, Jayne Ann Krentz (Jove)

Near the beginning:

“Boy howdy,” Jason said enthusiastically. “Do you cook, Miss Stenson?”

“I’ll have you know that you are looking at the reporter who is single-handedly responsible for selecting every recipe that runs in the Recipe Exchange column of the Glaston Cove Beacon.”

Jason grinned. “Should I be impressed?”

“You would be more than impressed, you would be stunned speechless if you saw some of the recipes I’ve rejected. Trust me, you’re better off going through life never knowing what some people can do with lime-flavored gelatin and red kidney beans.”

Growing up, they never ate anything from a can. It was always fresh produce, fresh meat. Not even chicken broth for a casserole. Then came the winter dinner was more often than not beans from a can, pasta from a can, chili or stew from a can. The television boasted soups that ate like meals, men waging wars over the choice between a spoon and a fork. She was just a child. She thought an electric can opener would have been the perfect Christmas gift for her hardworking mother.

South Asian male, mid 60s, with short clipped grey hair, thin wire rim glasses, pressed shirt, pressed slacks, and black leather shoes.

Airframe , Michael Crichton (Ballantine Books)

About a quarter of the way in:

As he neared the plane, the nauseating odor of vomit grew stronger. A frightened TransPac stewardess pushed him back at the door, chattering at him rapidly in Chinese. He showed her his badge and said, “FAA! Official business! FAA!” The stewardess stepped back, and Greene slid past a mother clutching an infant and stepped into the plane.

He looked at the interior, and stopped. “Oh my God,” he said softly. “What happened to this plane?”

He stood off to the side rotating his wedding ring and trying to make out their whispers. The room was painted white and the size of a small bachelor apartment. Six officials stood one each to a table, emptying bags and briefcases of plastic bins and food containers. He glanced at the other passengers and wondered which exotic plants they were guilty of digging up and bringing across the border. Or, perhaps they’d attempted to smuggle in drugs in the straw lining of a decorative pillow. When he looked back to the tables, his official was holding up the Alaskan Dog Team Snowglobe, telling him to go, “Just go.”

(Originally published September 17, 2007)

Caucasian girl, 12 or 13, with long, curly hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Her brow is wide and high, her eyebrows soft and fuzzy. The bridge of her broad nose bears summer’s last glow. I’ve been watching her read for almost a year, two-three times a week, always in the company of her gentle father who, too, reads at her side, protective, close enough that I’ve never been able to see the cover of her books let alone which page she reads. This school year, she’s a big girl. Solo. I’m cautious. I don’t want to be the one to betray the reserve of safety and comfort as she rides transit alone, en route to her new big girl world.

Artemis Fowl: The Opal Deception, Eoin Colfer (Talk Miramax Books)

Page 219:

Mulch slathered his fingers with spittle and spread it around the crown of his head, reaching as far back as the manacles would allow.

She stands at the kitchen counter, chewing slowly, eyes drooping, the toasted bagel cradled in the palm of her hand lying limp at the edge of the sink. Her father gets up early every Saturday, off to market for a dozen fresh from the wood oven, their weekly treat. He favours peanut butter while she slathers hers in cream cheese and red pepper jelly.

She watches her father run the push mower back and forth over a patch of weeds then stop to hike his pants. She hooks a stray hair from her mouth, checks the clock to see that she’s not late for her first day of school, swallows heavy, then takes another bite, watching her father descend into the deep ditch.