Caucasian woman, 40s, with a broad mouth and slight space between her two front teeth, wearing a white pleather coat, black jeans rolled high, and black leather boots, zipped on the sides and tied up the back.

The Powerbook, Jeanette Winterson (Knopf)

Page 91:

Love is worth death. Love is worth life. My search for you, your search for me, goes beyond life and death into one long call in the wilderness. I do not know if what I hear is an answer or an echo. Perhaps I will hear nothing. It doesn’t matter. The journey must be made.

They decided together. She read to the children, tucked them into bed, then joined him in theirs where they made love once more, and decided, her suitcases packed but laid open so nothing would settle, wrinkle, make it harder on the other end. He would be fine. Besides, he wasn’t the one leaving town for the term, going to a lonely place alone. She could do what she wanted, come home, and the town would be none the wiser. But he would have to worry about the kids. Kids talk.

De Niro’s Game, Rawi Hage (House of Anansi)

Page 163:

From the roof, I could see West Beirut on fire. The Israelis bombarded the inhabitants for days, orange light glowed in the night, machine-gun bullets left the ground and darted into the air in red arches. The city burned and drowned in sirens, loud blood, and death.

Late night, St. Mike’s emerg. Broken people in hard bucket seats and the constant feed of ambulances. She holds her arm close to her chest, her elbow throbbing. She’s still wearing her helmet. It hurts too much to move. The woman across from her is high, jabbing her finger at the woman’s ankle tie. She raises her pant leg and taps her monitor. "See," she slurs. "Me and you. We’re the same, hey? We’re the same."

How Doctor’s Think, Jerome Groopman, MD (Mainer Books)

Page 101:

The flight from Vietnam to Los Angeles seemed endless. Rachel Stein held Shira, her infant daughter adopted just days before in Phu Tho, on her lap, but neither slept. The infant had a cough and refused to take even a few sips from the bottle.

Their first Christmas together they held hands in bed and promised that if one of them ended up in a wheelchair they’d stay. If he lost an eyebrow to a grease fire, she’d stay. If she lost her hearing to a cotton swab, he’d stay. They laughed and pressed their foreheads together folding their gaze into shallow focus, knowing full well that no one knows why or when they’ll leave, that even joy can tear two people apart.

Blackfly Season, Giles Blunt (Seal Books)

Page 318:

Once out on the streets, she felt much better. The night air still tasted of spring: scents of new flowers, wet soil.

That morning his ten-year-old son had emptied twenty dollars in loonies into his father’s hands, his contribution against the rising cost of gas and a cancelled trip to the cottage. That and a hot chocolate and doughnut when they stopped to pee in Minden.

Asian male, early 30s, wearing pressed beige dress pants, black t-shirt, and spotless black sneakers, carrying a black computer bag with pink ribbon pinned to the pocket.

The Bonehunters, Steven Erikson (Bantam)

Page 285:

The animal looked as though pieced together from disparate, unidentifiable parts, only roughly approximately a dog’s shape. Humped, uneven shoulder muscles, a neck as thick round as a grown man’s thigh, misshapen, muscle-knitted haunches, a chest deep as a desert lion’s.

She kept her back to him, palming the crease scar. He stood behind her, one hand on her bare shoulder, the other on his waist, as if she was keeping him from crumpling.

Applied Arts Magazine, May/June 2008

Page 42:

Reading from "Drawn to Afghanistan" by Richard Johnson

Once there, he had to win over the soldiers who were wary of the media.

She fires up her laptop and checks her news feed. Celebrity C-section. Auto plant closure. More diet claims. And two soldiers dead. She navigates the server to the press release while she flips to his picture in the catalogue, a candid snap of a tired young man home on leave, taken by his wife the moment after they’d decided he wouldn’t go back. Take the picture, honey. I want the kids to remember this.

The Last King of Scotland, Giles Foden (Faber and Faber)

Page 194:

Him frowning, laughing, holding his clenched fist up to his mouth.

Him with a baby.

Him driving a jeep through jubilant crowds.

Him alone.

Him with me.

He watched his neighbour line up a stroke at the bacchi ball and wondered how much force it would take to shut this guy up, once and for all. He’d been in the same position forever, huddled over a bottle of Coors Light sweating between his knees. When he finally smacked the ball it was with such force that it took air landing in the decorative fishpond with a plop, a cue for the dog to take speed and another crack at the gold fish. Standing straight his neighbour took a long swig and Cheers-ed his host as his young wife replaced his empty with a tall, cool one.

Maggie, a Girl of the Streets and other New York Writings, Stephen Crane (Modern Library)

Page 78:

She gazed thoughtfully about the room and noted the strength and position of her enemies. She was very alert. At last, she turned to the mantel. "Five o’clock," she murmured, scrutinizing, swaggering, nickel-plated clock.

She fans herself, pulling at the hem of her sweaty tank top, loosening the folds before she leans back into the void of her worn seat. She rolls her head and looks out the windows, shading her eyes from the sun and the trees outside that feel a breeze as they stand still, yet she’s stuck inside this racing bullet with the recycled air of a stranger’s breakfast burped up over his third cup of coffee.

Black woman, late 20s, with long dark hair, wearing a brown jacket, brown knitted cap, blue jeans and large black sunglasses. She carries an old leather book bag, something that looks like it once belonged to, and maybe still does, a grad student.

Bitchfest: Ten Years of Cultural Criticism from the Pages of Bitch Magazine, Lisa Jervis & Andi Zeisler (Ed.) (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux)

Page 41:

What would-be grammar police don’t acknowledge is that hedges say less about an individual woman’s lack of confidence than they do about society’s expectation that a woman not be assertive.

"To the graduating class of 1982, teachers, parents, President Henner, I say, Welcome!"

*New card*

"I am proud to stand here as your valedictorian. This has been an especially accomplished year for me. I represented our school at the Ontario Science Fair; I played Mrs. Sowerberry in this year’s theatrical production of Oliver!…"

*New card*

"…I am your free throw champion two years running; and my first poem was published in the local newspaper."

*New card*

"But, first and foremost, I am your classmate."

*New card*

"As we leave these halls, some of us will take a short journey down the street to the vocational high school, others across town to specialized programs in the arts. But we will always be…"

*New card*

"TOGETHER IN OUR HEARTS!!!"

(Wait for applause)

Asian woman, mid 40s, with black pencil skirt and black blouse, collar up. She carries an old, out-of-place leather attaché, almost as if she’s bringing it in to work for someone, maybe a colleague who’d come for a work dinner, stayed too late and rushed out to catch the last train, leaving the case behind. Along with this book?

Paula Spencer, Roddy Doyle (Knopf Canada)

Page 22:

Paula stared at the plate. And the piece of rind she’d taken out of her mouth a few minutes before. The crumbs, the bit of congealed butter that had dripped from the sandwich. She fixed her eyes on the plate.

He wasn’t the sort to turn down seconds. She wasn’t the sort to cook.

He wasn’t the sort to loosen his tie. She wasn’t the sort to change into something else.

He wasn’t the sort to have a third drink. She wasn’t the sort to open another bottle.

He wasn’t the sort to cheat on his wife. She wasn’t the sort to cheat on hers.

Timothy’s, Church Street, laptop buzzing.

East Indian woman, early 30s, with long, black hair, wearing long, black skirt and thick-soled boots, velvet coat bunched on the seat beside her, gaze darting back and forth from the page to the slight man at the counter.

Brown Girl in the Ring, Nalo Hopkinson (Aspect)

Page 174:

Baby’s little fist opened and closed against her skin. He looked deeply into her eyes as though he were trying to communicate something. He seemed reluctant to take her breast. He’d suck a little, then spit out the nipple and whimper, staring up at her. She was probably taking him to his death. "Child, I sorry," she whispered to him. He fussed and kicked. "She gone, doux-doux," she said to him. She’d never used that endearment with him before. But now he was the only one of her family left, unless she counted the disembodied woman who was bound by Rudy’s obeah to kill her. "Mami gone."

He comes in the same time of day as she does, reading in the back corner for hours. Making his way through a personal library of Russian fiction, he occasionally stands, walking through the coffee shop on the balls of his feet, hands shoved into the high pockets of his flooded khakis. Bottom lip stuck out, he doesn’t sit until he’s reached a conclusion, a finished thought punctuated by a salute to no one in particular as he lands heavy in his chair, deeply satisfied. His short curls are matted from his winter hat, and his teeth protrude a little, but she’s certain that in her comic book world he will be the hero, and get all the girls.

(Originally published April 30, 2007)

Caucasian male, mid 40s, in casual dress pants and indigo blue shirt, standing at the back of the last car, legs braced, shoulders hunched, rocking.

The Plot Against America , Philip Roth (Vintage)

Page 113:

It was the first time I saw my father cry. A childhood milestone, when another’s tears are more unbearable than one’s own.

As a boy, he sat on the edge of the dock, side-by-side with Dad, legs dangling, eating peanut butter cookies and watching the minnows scatter. His father pinched the back of his neck, bumping his forehead with his own and laughed at nothing but warmth and sunshine. The relatives approached, guiding their boat through the choppy waves. His father leaned forward, reaching out to grab an extended arm and slipped into the water. He bobbed up under the dock, a stray nail puncturing his cheek. The boy rolled over the edge, puking at the sight of his father’s blood mixed with tears.

Starbucks, Saturday, crack of dawn.

Caucasian male, late 30s, with short black hair and goatee, wearing blue bomber jacket, unzipped, hat in his lap, sitting near the window across from a stranger surfing wireless.

King Leary, Paul Quarrington (Anchor)

Page 133:

Lonny Chandrian appears and hands me a puck. The feel of a hockey puck has changed over the years, but I’d be hard-pressed to tell you exactly how. In front of me Killebrew and the Maple Leaves’ mook assume the traditional half crouch and poise their sticks above the ice. I hold out the puck and let it tumble. Killebrew bats it in the air, bouncing it upwards, and then he catches the rubber on the blade of his stick. It’s a fairly keen stunt.

His morning coffee interrupted by peeling squeals, neighbourhood kids too far down the ice, going against all the rules of all the parents. Would serve them right, he’d thought, scratching behind his ear while the bread browned in the toaster. The clock chimed, the Black-Capped Chickadee ringing 10:00 am. The squeals reached near mania. He slammed his palm against the counter and lunged toward the door. On the back porch, he scanned the lake, pulling his robe tight to his body one moment, off in the next. One boy in, two on the edges.

The Dying Hour, Rick Mofina (Pinnacle Fiction)

Page 35:

As far back as he could remember all he wanted to be was a writer. And ever since he began reading people like Crane, Steinbeck, and Hemingway, he figured being a reporter was the best training, a ticket to the greatest story on earth: life.

Standing in the lobby of her office building she waited for the rain to stop. Her co-worker ducked around rush hour traffic, hurdling the tracks, hunched over and holding her skirt like she was avoiding falling debris or land mines. Safely in the streetcar shelter, she waved, pointing to the umbrella and mouthing, Thank you. From the lobby she waved back, No problem , and waited for the sky to clear. What’s a little water, anyway?

A Man in Full, Tom Wolfe (Bantam)

Page 31:

The library was paneled in a dark wood, mahogany or perhaps walnut, and lined with shelves that seemed to contain far more silver bowls, trophies, and pieces of blown-glass sculpture than books.

Most of them had left high school to learn a trade and done well for themselves, willing to travel for opportunity and steady pay. His brother was the only sibling to finish university. He stayed in the city, worked his way into a tenured position, and wrote three books read by a great number of people, none of them famial. They were the same size so it was quietly agreed that he would take any clothes he wanted, the rest would be donated. The bag was hanging on the coat hook by the door. He fiddled with the buckles and noted the shiny patch on the side of the bag that would have bumped against his brother’s hip every day on the way to school. He pulled the book from the middle pocket and read the spine. Swinging the bag over his shoulder he asked, Would they mind if, maybe, he took this too?

The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne (Barnes & Noble)

Page 19:

His gourmandism was a highly agreeable trait; and to hear him talk of roast-meat was as appetizing as a pickle or an oyster. As he possessed no higher attribute, and neither sacrificed nor vitiated any spiritual endowment by devoting all his energies and ingenuities to subserve the delight and profit of his maw, it always pleased and satisfied me to hear him expatiate on fish, poultry, and butcher’s meat, and the most eligible methods of preparing them for the table.

Dinner had been lovely. His friends were lovely. They were right, he’d agreed, this man had lived up to the hype. Kind. Intelligent. Had travelled enough to know he’d found home. He was ready to settle and that, too, was a desirable trait. They would no doubt see each other again. But as he felt the open palm rest between his shoulders as they left the restaurant, his vision of a night unfolding did not include another warm body in his bed, just the company of his favourite friend.

Asian woman, early 30s, wavy hair bunched up high, curls cascading down her long neck, wearing a black v-neck cotton shirt, clavicle sharp, shoulders broad, chest planked.

Dusk Dances 2007 brochure, Dusk Dances (Ontario Arts Council, Canada Council for the Arts, Toronto Arts Council, Canadian Heritage, Laidlaw Foundation, Metcalf Foundation, Hal Jackman Foundation, K.M. Hunter Charitable Foundation, Alterna Savings)

Page One:

Tonight we will take you on a stroll throughout the park, offering you five short dance pieces in five different locations. Our host Madame Beaucoup will lead you to each of those locations. Please feel free to come and talk to the artists at the end of the performance, they will certainly be happy to talk with you.

I was nine. The kitchen linoleum slid under my sockettes like ice, yet my ankles stayed strong, my balance pegged. With each glide, I grew in confidence, shouldering my weight across the counter, lifting myself into scissors, chin grazing the breadbox, torso rippling.

When I landed it was dull. Something was creaking, the trail of blood along a fissured bridge. They left it in place, took the chance that it would straighten on its own. Three years later on a volleyball court, a selfish, showcasing spike did the trick, her heroic elbow dealing the blow. The birth of my handsome nose.

The Red Element, Catherine Graham (Insomniac Press)

Page 43:

"Doll’s Eyes"

Bubbles at the end of red stems.
The illusion of looking out is looking in.

Her little socks bear the image of little shoelaces. Her wrinkled toes wriggle against the seams. Her fingers pump the air and find her mouth, her soft tongue curling over her lips as she unleashes a yawn that winds her, putting her to sleep.

Wicked, Gregory Maguire (HarperCollins)

Thumb marking a page about a third of the way in:

Glinda concentrated very hard and tried to make Elphaba’s leftover sandwich elevate outward over the canal. She only succeeded in exploding the thing in a small combustion of mayonnaise and shredded carrot and chopped olives.

The little dog next door sits in the window, his furry head resting against the frame. His eyebrows cock at the slightest movement, his eyes growing wider if he thinks you’ll come up the walk. When she passes by on way to school, he lifts his head and barks, his ears flat out like helicopter props, a muted morning greeting.

Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space , Carl Sagan (Random House)

Page 319:

We have a tendency to minimize the dangers of new technologies. A year before the Chernobyl disaster, a Soviet nuclear power industry deputy minister was asked about the safety of Soviet reactors, and chose Chernobyl as a particularly safe site. The average waiting time to disaster, he confidently estimated, was a hundred thousand years. Less than a year later . . . Devastation. Similar reassurances were provided by NASA contractors the year before the Challenger disaster: You would have to wait ten thousand years, they estimated, for a catastrophic failure of the shuttle. One year later . . . Heartbreak.

He shares his cubicle with a man with slicked back hair and a long goatee who steps out every two hours to get a coffee. They sit back-to-back, his co-worker’s reflection rounded in the computer monitor, his broad shoulders hunched over the keyboard. He sips the coffee loudly, bites the plastic lid, his large fingers squeaking against the styrofoam cup. He’s trying to quit smoking. He keeps a pack of cigarettes in his desk drawer, pulling one out at the end of each day and resting it behind his ear, leaving at precisely 4:53 PM, always with the same joke and a wink. "Be back in seven."