July 29

Westbound, Bloor and Broadview — Toronto, ON

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with long brown hair in hair-band, wearing tan skirt, white tank top, and pistaschio-green sweater.

Mistress of the Sun , Sandra Gulland (HarperCollins)

Page 217:

In the weeks that followed, Petite rode with the King and his men almost every afternoon. She astonished them, riding in close behind the hounds and proving to be steady, fearless and strong, as good with a spear as any man. In a race, it was sometimes Petite who pulled into the lead, and sometimes the King. The couriers could not keep up.

She can’t recall how they became best friends, but remembers the end. Just as school let out for summer, he moved to town, but not to her neighbourhood. They were in the same grade, but that’s not how you make best friends. Your best friend lives next door, across the street, or, occasionally, two yards behind you. Your best friend can be in your class, but it’s not mandatory. Street rules: a nine-year-old and a seven-year-old have more than enough in common if all they do is toss a ball in the street until dinner’s called. And if the parents are willing to check your mail while you’re out of town, both households are on good terms.

He lived a bike ride away — twenty-three minutes, to be exact — on the other side of a bridge. They strolled ravines, straddled fallen trees, and the only time she met his father was the day he hoisted her bike into the wide trunk of his Cadillac and drove her back over the tracks as her mother was about to lock the screen door. The mother pinched her night robe closed at the neck, face-to-face with the father, his suit jacket sitting in the back seat of the car, his tie’s knot wrestled loose to sit on his left collarbone, his hand ushering her over the threshold with a gentle, and final, pat.

Westbound, Bloor and Pape — Toronto, ON

Caucasian male, mid 50s, with scruffy white hair and glasses, wearing tan pants, burgundy sweater, and brown leather boots.

Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy (Vintage)

Page 117:

It grew cold in the night and it blew stormy with wind and rain and soon all the wild menagerie of that country grew mute. A horse put its long wet face in at the door and Glanton looked up and spoke to it and it lifted its head and curled its lip and withdrew into the rain and the night.

In school he saw a film he didn’t understand. It was quiet and blue, and the girl who made it was shy and pretty. Everything was blue. From the bath water, to the kitchen kettle, to the drapes softly suckled by the slightly open mouth of a screenless window. When the horse appeared from the fog, it too was blue for a time until it lumbered closer to the camera where it was so clearly chestnut that the man began to cry.

Julie Wilson

Eastbound, Bloor and Castle Frank

Caucasian woman, mid 50s, with long blonde hair, wearing glasses, and white shawl over powder blue sun dress.

Broken, Daniel Clay (Emblem)

Page 77:

It was the not knowing she couldn’t cope with. She got up. She opened the curtains. She stared out on the street. Very dark and totally silent. She pulled the stool from under her vanity unit and sat with her chin in her hands. She watched the street and she waited.

It was the not knowing she couldn’t cope with. That other woman on the television, the Brit, she’d stood in line, probably for days, and she’d never been married, never been kissed. Her husband gone, her daughters off at school, what was stopping her from taking a chance?

Westbound, Bloor and St. George

Caucasian female, late 20s, with short curly brown hair, wearing red collared T-shirt, faded jeans with rolled cuffs, and black Vans.

The Raw Shark Texts, Steven Hall (Harper Perennial)

Page 237:

The old man was about to come back with an explosion of his own, a shouting stretch-faced barrage from under that mass of hair. It almost happened, the world sucking in breath like the sea pulling back before a tsunami wave, but then it didn’t, he didn’t. In the heart of the pressure cooker, something gave.

The day her divorce came through her father sent flowers. It had taken some time for him to get used to the marriage. Initially, he’d been opposed. But, as the card read, there were a lot of fish in the sea. And if he knew one thing for certain, it’s that there was another woman out there for his baby girl.

Eastbound, Bloor and Broadview

Asian male, mid 20s, with short black hair, wearing grey zipped cardigan, dark blue jeans, and white sneakers.

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, Susanna Clarke (Bloomsbury)

Page 183:

Whenever he saw these passageways or, as he sometimes did, sensed their presence without actually perceiving them, then he would feel a little more lively, a little more like his old self. Whatever part of him it was that had frozen up (his soul? his heart?) unfroze itself the merest hair’s breadth and thought, curiosity and feeling began to pulse again within him.

The bottle of cologne broke on the kitchen tile shortly after he moved in, a gift from his ex-girlfriend. While the accident resulted in a stench that would last for weeks, she felt selfishly at ease. She could see its affect each time he applied the scent, and would rather a ghost join them for breakfast than mournful nostalgia delivered in heavy-handed doses each time he stepped fresh from the shower.

Eastbound, Bloor and Bay

Black woman, mid 30s, with long dark hair, wearing floral silk jacket, and grey dress pants.

Bottomfeeder, Taras Grescoe (HarperCollins)

Page 262:

The frozen pollock blocks are then sold to converters, such as Newfoundland-based Fishery Products International, or Gorton’s of Gloucester, which saw them into patty-sized portions (meaning a single patty can contain the flesh of several fish). They are then breaded and prefried. Alaskan pollock goes into 90 percent of the three hundred million Filet-O-Fishes McDonald’s sells in North America every year. It is also the main ingredient in the fish sandwiches sold by Arby’s, Dairy Queen, and Burger King.

Her first job was working the night shift in the drive-through, just her and a newer hire who was convinced on his first day to grab bags of air from storage once he was done taking pickle inventory. Years later, when she came into his computer store with a problem with her hard drive, he took his chances that she wouldn’t have access to a magnet powerful enough to do any real damage.

Enter the Revenge Lit contest, judged by Dan Wells (Biblioasis), Terry Griggs (Thought You Were Dead), and yours truly! Contest closes June 12, 2009. Crazy good prizes!

Westbound, Bloor and Yonge

Caucasian male, late 40s, with short grey hair, wearing glasses, dark blue suit, and white sneakers.

The Princess Bride, William Goldman (Del Rey)

Page 113:

And so, even with the Sicilian on his neck and the Princess around his shoulder and the Spaniard at his waist, Fezzik did not feel in the least bit put upon. He was actually quite happy, because it was only when he was requested to use his might that he felt he wasn’t a bother to everybody.

He’s certain his daughter isn’t eating. Every night, he picks at his plate and she tells him everything’s fine. Not all bodies are built the same, Dad. But there’s that girl in the papers — every day, in the papers — the one in the movies who took up with that disc jockey. Clearly, she isn’t healthy, right? He’s not a stupid man. And if it’s the difference between asking his daughter if she’s stopped eating, or asking his baby girl if she’s on drugs? It’s easier for a father to come home with double-cheese pizza.

(Originally published March 10, 2008)

Bloor Line

Asian male, late 20s, with short spiky hair, wearing glasses, black jacket and scarf, pressed blue jeans, and white sneakers.

The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, Robin Sharma (HarperCollins)

Page 9:

Perhaps he had settle down in India, a place so diverse that even a restless soul like his could have made it his home. Or maybe he was trekking through Nepal? Scuba diving off the Caymans? One thing was certain: he had not returned to the legal profession. No one had received even a postcard from him since he left for his self-imposed exile from the Law.

If he had to leave today to live on a desert island, he wouldn’t take his favourite books, or music, not even his favourite jersey or pet cat. He’d take a box of all the things he’d been holding when she took his breath away. A grapefruit spoon when she’d asked if he’d like her to buy an extra toothbrush. A safety pin when she’d leaned forward to kiss his forehead while he tried to fasten a presenter’s badge to her lapel. A tin of loose tea leaves when she’d announced she was pregnant, really pregnant. And while impractical, his father’s coffin, when he’d looked over to see her crying and realized that, one day, she would miss him this much too.

Eastbound, Bloor and Yonge

Black woman, late 50s, wearing red jacket, dress pants, black sneakers, a red and green plaid rolling cart tucked between her knees.

Jolie Blon’s Bounce, James Lee Burke (Simon & Schuster)

Page 4:

There were tattoos, like dark blue smears, inside his forearms. He used two fingers to lift the blade out of a pocketknife.
“You like to look t’rew people’s windows?” he asked.
“No, sir,” I said.
“They’re just kids, Legion,” the woman in back said, putting on her shirt.
“Maybe that’s what they gonna always be,” the man said.

She wasn’t just the youngest of five, she would always be the smallest, the top of the picnic pyramid, the one to retrieve jams and jars from the crawlspace, and the eyes and ears of her big sister’s sex life witnessed through her bedroom window, the remaining siblings braced beneath her.

Westbound, Bloor and Castle Frank

Caucasian woman, late 50s, with short blonde hair, wearing tan overcoat, large glasses, and purple hat with wide brim.

Scared to Live, Stephen Booth (HarperCollins)

Page 331:

When Cooper had briefed her and left for the Heights of Abraham, Fry thought about John Lowther’s confusion of speech. He hadn’t seemed to mix up his words when she’d seen him on Wednesday — not the way he had later, when he was interviewed. He’d been more vague and confused than anything else. Dr. Sinclair might be right.

The two couples keep their subscription, gathering once every few months for light classics at the symphony. On the subway, three of them catch up, chatting lively about books, retirements, or this strange new obsession, Twitter-something. Her husband smiles pleasantly, hands fixed to the knees of his burgundy corduroys. He listens in without contributing. Since the stroke, they all think he’s faking a foreign accent.

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