Caucasian male, late 40s, with short grey hair, wearing glasses, black leather jacket, and tan pants.

The New Quarterly, Issue 107 (The Salon des Refusés)

Page 63:

From the short story “Impossible to Die in Your Dreams” by Heather Birrell

Samantha is still talking to the tall man, her eyebrows meeting in the middle of her forehead like something from a political cartoon. Smile, I will her silently. Look into his eyes. There is softness in her, I’ve seen it. Post-Bobby, for an entire year, Annie refused to dress in anything but purple, right down to the skin. Left stubborn rings like bands of grape juice around the tub, in the good mixing bowls. When her mother lost patience, what little she had, it was Samantha who showed up in a lavender pantsuit and mauve eye shadow to intercede.

There was that year that everyone made fun of the actor who only ate orange food. Of course, it wasn’t true, the actor had retorted, was it on some late night talk show, or maybe among the pages of some mens’ magazine, he tried to remember. He opened the freezer, the condensation fogging his glasses, and reached blindly into the rows of tangerine sherbet packed tightly to the back and sides, knowing, after all, what he’d retrieve.

Asian male, 40s, with short black hair, wearing pink polo shirt, baggy blue jeans, and baby blue Crocs.

Angels & Demons, Dan Brown (Pocket Books)

Page 193:

At first glance the room appeared to be a darkened airline hangar in which someone had built a dozen free-standing racquetball courts. Langdon knew of course what the glass-walled enclosures were. He was not surprised to see them; humidity and heat eroded ancient vellums and parchments, and proper preservation required hermetic vaults like these-airtight cubicles that kept out humidity and natural acids in the air. Langdon had been inside hermetic vaults many times, but it was always an unsettling experience . . . something about entering an airtight container where the oxygen was regulated by a reference librarian. 

In school, his roommate’s girlfriend sat him in the kitchen and took his hands, palms up, in hers. She asked him to close his eyes and focus on the moment of his death. When he opened his eyes, she confirmed the worst. Not because drowning would be a bad way to go, but because it was done. He would die. And that was that.

Asian woman, early 30s, with long black hair, wearing pink top, black jeans, and black flip flops. She adjusts her posture, taking a sharp breath, and wincing.

Breaking Dawn, Stephenie Meyer (Little Brown and Company)

Page 557:

I watched Edward’s face go absolutely white as he read what Sam was thinking. Sam ignored him, looking straight at Carlisle as he stopped walking and began to speak.

“Right after midnight, Alice and Jasper came to this place and asked permission to cross our land to the ocean. I granted them that and escorted them to the coast myself. They went immediately into the water and did not return. As we journeyed, Alice told me it was of the utmost importance that I say nothing to Jacob about seeing her until I spoke to you. I was to wait here for you to come looking for her and then give you this note. She told me to obey her as if all our lives depended on it.”

Eternal life without pain. Hers had worsened in recent months. She knew she should see someone. Before vampires, she’d believed in something else. She’d pictured loved ones looking down, saddened that she hadn’t chosen, her existence tied too tightly to consciousness. But these creatures, just like her, only faster, more limber, full of endless sensation . . . that would be a supreme sacrifice she’d be willing to embrace if it meant she could breathe without aching.

Rose-coloured

Starbucks, Spadina and Richmond

Caucasian male, early 40s, settled deep into an easy chair, legs crossed wide, staking his claim in the early morning rush of bar drinks and lingering line-ups.

The Communist’s Daughter, Dennis Bock (HarperCollins)

About page 177:

We found room in a railcar loaded with an irreplaceable cargo of government-issue rice, perhaps four hundred bags in all, stacked right to the ceiling. Approximately three hours into our journey, however, in the middle of the night, I was awakened by an all-encompassing silence. We were no longer moving.

He’s a young boy, about ten, moving his tray along the rails, considering the desserts. J-ello, red and green, in a glass sundae dish, topped with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. Milk chocolate pudding in a glass dish, topped, again, with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. A glass bowl of creamy rice pudding with raisins. Something layered and spongy, kind of creamy with a dusting of chocolate slivers. He lifts it and smells. Strong. Alcohol. The clock strikes the hour and he turns to scan the dark wood panel wall. The bird slides in and out, followed by the lederhosen couple chasing each other through the shell, two times. He looks toward the long hall leading to the women’s washroom, back to his table and his grandmother’s beige purse, tan overcoat. She has trouble swallowing and she’s been gone a long time.

Caucasian woman, mid 50s, with trim grey hair, wearing black-rimmed glasses, grey shirt, black slacks, and sensible shoes.

Straight into Darkness, Faye Kellerman (Vision)

Page 199:

Ten beds on each side, all of them were occupied. Above the headboards hung wooden crucifixes; nuns in black habits and nurses in starched white uniforms scurried about—a life-size chessboard. As the grogginess lifted from his brain, he became aware of sounds . . . moans . . . groans . . . the soft sighs of weeping. Whispers crackled through the air like radio static.

She doesn’t wish he was dead, but when she bumps into him in the street it’s hard to accept that he still walks among the earth. She thought he was gone. And he stands in front of her, waves without speaking, as if he, too, can’t bring himself to say hello, that the sight of his mouth forming salutation would look, from a distance, as if he’s attempting to converse with an empty void. Such is the first encounter between ex lovers.

Caucasian male, mid 20s, with short brown hair, goatee, and glasses, wearing red T-shirt, black nylon pants, and white sneakers, his wheelchair snug inside the doors.

Halo Contact Harvest, Joseph Staten (Tor Books)

Page 62:

His figure on the screen has started out a little boy. For a while it had changed into a bear. Now it was a large mouse, with long and delicate hands. He ran his figure under a lot of large items of furniture depicted on the screen. He had played with the cat a lot, but now it was boring—too easy to dodge, he knew all the furniture.

Not through the mouse hole this time, he told himself. I’m sick of the Giant. It’s a dumb game and I can’t ever win. Whatever I choose is wrong.

Patches of fresh gravel have been laid on the road, yellow signs warning of low wires and pebble spray. He’s driven these bends most of his life it seems. You’d think he’d know by now he won’t get reception. He fiddles the dial and the opening strains of The Hip’s “Blowin’ High Dough” break through as his wheel catches the shoulder’s edge. He sees it coming. He knows this dip.

Caucasian woman, late 30s, dark brown hair pulled back in ponytail, wearing gold rimmed glasses, grey shirt, and black pants.

Die With Me, Elena Forbes (House of Anansi Press)

Page 87:

Tom had asked Gemma if she found high places exciting, if she got a thrill looking down from a tall building or a cliff. Still trying to justify to himself why he felt Marion Spear’s death worth looking into, Tartaglia had re-read the email earlier that morning after coming back from the cemetery.

Do you feel the attraction of the void? Do you feel the pull as you look over the edge of a high place, knowing that you’re only a second away from death if you choose?

It had been twenty minutes. She stood at the middle of the bridge and looked out over the ravine. Family back home still didn’t believe that things could live here, stare up at her from beside a four-lane highway, the morning commuters sneaking up on a slowly waking city. The sun had risen, the doe in full view, her fur the fiery red of a smeared cross on a metal first aid kit hidden under a sink in country laundry room.

QN Podcast

Don’t live in my ‘hood? Email me your mp3 and picture, just like Sage! julie [at] seenreading [dot] com

Spadina streetcar, Tom’s of Maine

Caucasian woman, early 20s, with short, spiky red hair tucked in a green paisley bandana, wearing a loose black T-shirt with a hole in the right shoulder at the seam, fraying jeans shorts and Crocs.

No Logo, Naomi Klein (Knopf)

Page 138:

After all, the Gap’s project is to take a distinctive object–clothing–and brand it so completely that purchasing it from the Gap is as easy as buying a quart of milk or a can of Coke. Starbucks, on the other hand, is in the business of taking a much more generic object –a cup of coffee– and branding it so completely that it becomes a spiritual/designer object. So Starbucks doesn’t want to be known as a blockbuster, it wants, as its marketing director Scott Bedbury says, to “align ourselves with one of the greatest movements towards finding a connection with your soul.”

She buys her organic coffee at The Big Carrot, $2.00 for a large, sweetened with Stevia, and her croissant at Tim Horton’s where it’s solid and chewy, not airy and dry, because she resents paying for something that flakes off into the bag as if her money grows on trees.

Caucasian woman, early 40s, with windblown grey hair, wearing flowing grey dress and black sandals, a Swipe Books bag at her feet.

Ikonica: A Field Guide to Canada’s Brandscape, Jeanette Hanna & Alan Middleton (Douglas & McIntyre)

Page 59:

Joe’s Rant:

Hey, I’m not a lumberjack, or a fur trader . . . I don’t live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled . . . and I don’t know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, although I’m certain they’re really, really nice. I have a prime minister, not a president. I speak English and French, not American. And I pronounce it “about,” not “a boot.” I can proudly sew my country’s flag on my backpack. I believe in peacekeeping, not policing; diversity, not assimilation, and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal. A toque is a hat. A chesterfield is a couch, and it is pronounced ‘zed’ not ‘zee’, ‘zed’! Canada is the second largest land mass! The first nation of hockey! And the best part of North America! My name is Joe! And I am CANADIAN!

Hey, I don’t wear plaid, or a ball cap. I don’t live on The Island or eat only rice and beans. I don’t know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from the bar, although I’m certain they’re really, really nice. I have a King and a Queen. I speak with and without gender. And I pronounce it “gay”, “queer”, or “lesbian” but you can call me by my first name. I can’t sew to save my country, but my backpack carries the flag. I believe in police who keep my peace; diversity, not assimilation, and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal. A toque makes me look like Beckham. A chesterfield is a yard sale’s lover’s dream. And it’s pronounced ‘Sistah’ not ‘Sister’, ‘Sistah’! Canada is a safe haven! The first nation to say “Stay out of my bedroom!’ And the best part of North America! My name is Jillian! And I am LESBIAN!

Caucasian male, mid 20s, tall and thin, with curly black hair, wearing black T-shirt with small breast pocket, faded black jeans, and worn black leather dress shoes. A canvas bag is slung across the back of his chair. His fingernails are caked in ink.

Half Broken Things, Morag Joss (Delta)

Page 89:

Steph had shoplifted a set of fairy lights that she strung along the shelf above the gas fire. But the sofa was too small for both of them. In the evenings, with the remains of that night’s takeaway lying in dishes on the floor around them, Steph would stretch out along the sofa and Michael would sit on the floor leaning against it, his long legs bent in front of the fire, which was now always lit. For a while they would not speak of anything and their silence seemed meditative. Then, full-bellied in the warmth, and in the soft coloured lights and confessional flicker of candles Steph lit, they talked, unable to see each other’s faces.

In the basement, on the shelf over the canned tomato sauce, are the napkins and take out containers. He topples up the stairs, unloading them onto the end of the bar alongside the generic white plastic bags. He’s learned that, quietly, once a shift he can get away with clearing a table—only the strangers, people who looked like they’d crossed the bridge for a concert—forgetting to return with their leftovers. He’s sorry, he says. He misheard. A moment’s pause while they think it through. Would it have kept another three hours anyway? He begs off, again, sorry, and sneaks into the dish pit where he inks his name into the Styrofoam lid before placing tomorrow’s breakfast in the fridge’s crisper.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with white blonde bob, wearing black-framed glasses, black tank top, black jeans, black Converse, and red studded belt sitting low on her hips.

Candy Girl, Diablo Cody (Gotham Books)

Page 43:

Lisa changed into a dress that was identical to mine, only hers was a vulgar pink shade and fit like a custom garment. She wound a garter snugly around her ankle and tucked in a few dollars. Bait, I guess. She looked strangely prim and professional, like she was about to show a split-level Tudor to a prospective buyer or draft an addendum to a purchase agreement.

“Are you going downstairs”? I asked. She was, so I shadowed her like a brain-dead conjoined twin.

“Are you going downstairs?” I asked. She was, so I shadowed her, her identical twin. She sat at the piano and spread the sheet music flat. One foot on the pedal, the other rested underneath the bench, hinging side to side in time with the chords. I played along, fingers drumming silently against my thighs. I’d chosen the guitar, but we were never far from one another’s past times.

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Dovercourt Road, sunning outside the laundromat

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, light brown hair pulled into high ponytail, wearing pink “short” shorts and a white tank top. Matching tattoos bookend each elbow crease, something with wings.

Something Blue, Emily Giffin (Griffin)

About page 35:

But then both he and Rachel flatly refused to include me in any post date gossip, and that irritated me as I was better friends with each of them then they could have become with each other on one stupid date.

She rocked back in the weathered patio chair and pulled a potato chip from the bag between her knees. The noise inside her head filled with the crunch of ridges, the edges scoring her cheeks. She was still sore from that morning, the sudden urge to make love brought on by an intense sadness, waking to find the world as she’d left it before the six pack. The salt and vinegar bit at the back of her throat, up her nose, and as the tears settled behind her eyes, she couldn’t tell the difference between pain and pleasure.

Caucasian woman, mid 40s, with long blonde hair, wearing blue and purple sleeveless blouse, tan capris, and white open-toed sandals, nails painted pale pink.

Lopsided: How having breast cancer can be really distracting, Meredith Norton (Viking USA)

Page 29:

The next Wednesday, I went for the core biopsy. Some microcalcifications were found on my mammogram and although they could indicate precancerous growth, they probably didn’t. This was the second time anyone had mentioned cancer. The first time was a French breast specialist who glanced at my breast and said, “Well, it definitely isn’t cancer.”

She wonders if she should have left the book at home. She’s caught the odd glance. She doesn’t have cancer, has never lost a loved one to it, considers the word “breast” and realizes she hasn’t given hers much thought, now that she thinks about it. Truth be told, the word makes her hungry, her dinner thawing in the fridge alongside a tower of asparagus soaking in a glass measuring cup. Now that she thinks about the asparagus, she wonders when it was, the last time she had sex?

South Asian woman, early 20s, wearing white T-shirt and denim skirt, gold bracelets circling each forearm, wrist to elbow.

Small Crimes in an Age of Abundance, Matthew Kneale (Doubleday)

Page 63:

Afterward Peter would often think of that face: a foolish-looking face, with small eyes and sticking-out ears: a face that one would never imagine might prove one’s nemesis. Although, in truth, it was Peter himself who was the real cause of his own destruction. If only he had slept better during the previous weeks, he might have apologized for what was, after all, his fault. Instead he was overcome by a strange obstinacy. “You should have been looking.”

He steps off the train and meets her shoulder with his, a purposeful push. Glaring down at her big brown eyes, his stubbled chin inches from her forehead, he mumbles something sour, his lips pursed and tight, something he’s been holding the whole ride home, maybe since this morning, like a knot of phlegm he can’t decide to spit or swallow.

Asian male, late 20s, with shaved head and black-framed glasses, wearing white dress shirt under blue vest, tan pants, and plaid Converse.

The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism, Naomi Klein (Vintage)

Page 237:

On February 11, 1990, two weeks after writing that note, Mandela walked out of prison a free man, as close to a living saint as existed anywhere in the world. South Africa’s townships exploded in celebration and renewed conviction that nothing could stop the struggle for liberation. Unlike the movement in Eastern Europe, South Africa’s was not beaten down but a movement on a roll. Mandela, for his part, was suffering from such an epic case of culture shock that he mistook a camera microphone for “some newfangled weapon developed while I was in prison.”

He stands near the window unable to bring himself to sit beside a stranger. The news reports a charge of second-degree murder. He wants to feel that gentle push of thigh against his neighbour’s, something to say, We’re in this together. But he finds his mind wandering, less to the victim than to the people who sat directly across the aisle, the ones who had to inch closer in order to move past. He thinks of them and his chest flutters. He pushes his back to the window, positions himself toward the door, feeling the shame of knowing he’d be the first to step down.

Dani Couture’s personal site
Animal Effigy

Spadina Station; in line, looped twice around.

Black man, early 20s, wearing a black fleece and red scarf, a brown leather bag slung across his chest, a row of TTC subway buttons running the length of the strap: a subway sonnet.

The Edible Woman, Margaret Atwood (Emblem)

Page 153:

When she went into the room he was doing the pillowcase. He seemed more relaxed: he was ironing with a long easy sweeping motion instead of the exact staccato strokes he had been using on the blouse. He looked up at her as she came in.

“I suppose you’re wondering what happened to the mirror,” he said.

“Well…”

“I smashed it. Last week. With the frying-pan.”

“Oh,” she said.

Last night, he made pancakes for dinner. He flipped each one with precision and care, standing over the cast iron pan seasoned with thirty years of Mother’s lamb chops, fast fry steaks, eggs over-easy — and pancakes. Blueberry, banana, corn and buckwheat, the slow rise of bubbles creeping to the edges, crisp and ruffled, an eight-year-old sleepy boy sitting hungry at the kitchen table, his tiny hands gripping a charred strip of bacon.