the cave.

He scuffed his shoes as he walked, imagining the soles of his shoes cutting up the damp leaves underfoot. The grey sidewalk extended forever, and almost every yard held a massive maple tree, their branches cutting off the pale afternoon sky.

Along the sidewalk, street, and yards were patches of light. The leaves were falling, even now, and the gaps they left were like stage lights, the stage crew having left them pointing every which way. His steps brought him through an illuminated area, and his steps hastened oh so imperceptibly.

Up ahead of him he could see where the trees ended, right before an intersection. Out there the whole world was exposed, naked in the absence of the comforting shade. There were no trees to keep out the sky, no houses to push away the wind.

Underneath that massive red-brown canopy he walked, scuffing his shoes as he went.

quatre: good morning

It had been a blur- his arms strained against the straps and broke free of them, they had been loosely done with no expectations that this would happen. He’d waited, until the pain had subsided to a dull roar, until his skull had been sown back up, and until it had been trapped inside his head.

His brief scuffle with the “doctor’s”, the frenzied grappling as scalpels and syringes and surgical instruments were grabbed and swung, and thrown around, it was all a haze. He remembered the “timer” the detonator, and lunged for it, and seconds later he stood, back against the wall with it clutched in his hand. They were on the ground, clutching their wounds, bleeding all over.

Looking down, he saw that the screen had been cracked, and it was a mess of red light shining through the tiny black screens.

“When is it set for?”

“We don’t know. We never knew.”

“I don’t even have any meetings planned what do you mean, blowing away half the businesses in America, how can you not know?”

“You don’t ask questions. You never, ever ask questions. You don’t talk about it! There are rul-“

The voices had faded as he walked away.

A warm breeze blew at his back, stinging the wound, ruffling his shirt. Higher in the sky, the sun glinted from the windows, from the cars coasting by, from the sunglasses of people walking past. He wondered why he had bought the house, and remembered the other reasons; remembered imagining loved ones in every room, a home with the curtains pulled up and warm, clean sunlight pouring in.

Richard Gabourel walked down the sidewalk, not knowing where he was going, but knowing what he wanted to do. He had a life that could end any second, and a thousand things to fill it up with.

trois: good morning

Revelation after revelation exploded in his brain clearing away thoughts that had lingered only moments before. His whole life lay open before him, and Richard Gabourel could do anything he wanted, swim an ocean, climb a mountain, start a family.

The playground was already far behind him, but the sounds of children screaming and having fun still echoed in his ears. What would it be like to have one of his own, to love and to care for, to raise up and to teach. Thirty-eight and a highly successful businessman, there had been no time, not for dates that didn’t involve the CEOs of other companies, and not for love, a four-letter word rarely heard, if ever, on the golf course.

“We could have picked anyone. There were at least four other people we could have taken, why this guy?”

“Look at him. What do you see? A man with a life who has never lived- we’re not changing anything here.”

He absentmindedly wondered if there was anything even left of his house, 27 Willow Crescent, three bedrooms two bathrooms, a forty-minute drive from the city, large cherry tree out on the front lawn. The payments on that house were forgotten, but why he had bought it in the first place was beginning to surface.

It was supposed to have been a place away from work- away from that world of suits and good mornings and meetings, where people met and met and met, but never knew each other. It was the place where he had been ready to leave for after three nights of sleeping in his office. 27 Willow Crescent, a place but not a home.

They had known enough about him to catch him as he walked out of those plate glass doors, rough hands grabbing his jacket, a needle frantically plunged into his arm, through his clothing. He could not recall wondering why the security guards stood by and did nothing, could scarcely remember his captors, black shirts, black pants, black shoes.

“That should do it then, operation successful.”

“Did you set up the timer?”

“It’s all ready- we let him go, we watch from a distance, and when the time comes-“

“We blow him and the heads of half the businesses in America to kingdom come.”

deux: good morning

Richard had life in his step, an epiphany every time his foot touched the concrete. He felt good, loved the air in his lungs, the body he was in, the beautiful morning.

The immense pain continued to break his head open, and he could almost the cold air flowing in to take up space in his skull. Icy fingers, sheathed in thin latex, gently lay themselves on his temples. They felt like sledgehammers, and he inhaled frigid air through clenched teeth, catching someone’s attention.

“Stevens, what are you doing?”

“Whoa, relax, man. I barely tapped him."

"Looks like the drugs have been doing their work. Knock you out for twelve hours, wake up with a hangover from hell."

The sun had moved up over the apartment buildings. Flexing stiff fingers, Richard grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, and, pulling them back, eased it off of his shoulders. He was sure that the shirt underneath was stained with last night’s excursions, with panicked sweat and blood, his and other’s, and fear. None of that mattered. He dropped the jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, letting the morning sunlight warm up his skin.

“Does this mean he’s awake?”

“Who knows? I saw his eyes open, but it’s highly unlikely that can see anything- this lamp must be like a floodlight to him”

Walking past a nightclub, Richard glanced into a car parked right in front. The wasted individual inside was just beginning to react to the newly risen sun beating down on his eyelids. Just before his steps had taken him too far, he saw the young man slump over, not enough energy in his body to turn his head away.

“You’re sure your ‘operation’ isn’t gonna kill the guy?”

“Are you doubting my abilities?”

“No.”

“I’m fairly sure.”

intermission- distraction

I tap my feet, trying to read my textbook, trying to understand exactly what Wernicke’s area of the brain has to do with not being able to speak properly. Because if it does, there is definitely something wrong with my Wernicke’s area. Keeping my eyes down, I run my tongue over my teeth, making sure it’s still there. There must be some reason I can’t talk.

Looking up, I inwardly curse and rejoice that she’s still there. A part of me whispers that maybe if I just sit back and stare, I’ll be able to muster up the courage to actually approach her, to bask in her presence, to talk to her. It’s crazy talk, all of it.

Sitting at a table near the reference section of the library, she’s taken the wiser path. To my right the easy chairs next to the magazine racks hold one student; head tilted back, mouth agape, textbook wide open on his lap. Hard uncomfortable wooden chairs are definitely the way to go for the serious scholar.

There has to be a way to get some studying done. And then it comes to me. I can read a page, and look up, through this technique get actual studying done. I’m thrilled with what my brilliant mind has come up with, and then stupidly decide to start it off with a glance.

And then a glance turns into a look. Before it can turn into a stare I drop my eyes to the page, and attempt to start reading again. How can she be so pretty? There are some things that I can’t wrap my mind around- and this is definitely one of them.

After a page of Psychology, I look up again. She’s still reading, eyes intent on the pages. Her eyes glance right to a notebook on the table, a slender hand pushes a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear, and she looks up, grey-blue eyes locking onto mine.

My heart stops.

Thousands and thousands of ideas run through my mind- anything to fix this, anything to make this all stop and have everything back to normal where I don’t even look up every page and where I’m just studying and she’s just studying and work gets done and everything is all right. Nothing comes up.

Her look turns from one of slight surprise to one of vaguely irritated curiosity.

I get up.

My feet are Judas incarnate, and they bring me to her table, standing directly across from her.

I open my mouth.

“Hey, I’m really sorry. Not even just a little sorry- really, really, really sorry. I mean, here you are, sitting here actually doing work and I’m over there staring and um... Not what I was trying to say... You know what? You’re pretty. And maybe people don’t tell you that or you don’t hear it often or whatever, but you are. And I’m sitting all the way over there and I can’t stop looking up. And- it’s just- distracting. I can’t get any work done, because you’re there, and you’re still looking like that. It’s not even that I’m into you, or that I think about you ever when I don’t see you, because I don’t. It’s just when you’re around. And- just- take the compliment... I’m going to go. Find somewhere I can actually work.”

Turning, I walk to the library doors, heart beating like I’ve just been running for my life. And walk out.

un: good morning

The sun peeked over the apartments on the other side of the street, its light bright and clean. Richard Gabourel stepped out of the imposing brick building, let the heavy fire doors swing behind him, and smiled at the sky. He could just picture the day outlining his torn, ragged suit, exposing the bruises and dried blood to the world.

Cool air, bright, vibrant existence, it was all so different from the nightmare that ended for good with the heavy click of the doors shutting. Not caring where he went, he began an easy, confident walk right. Flashes of memory would fill up his vision occasionally, as if his brain refused to let him forget it.

He woke up to the harsh, burning glare of a fluorescent bulb above him. It took him almost a minute to realize that he was lying down. Almost two more had elapsed before the realization that he was strapped down dawned on him.

“Is he awake?”

The voice scratched his ears, not because it was rough or grating, but because all of his senses were on edge. A pain so intense, so overwhelming split the top of his head that he thought he would pass out. He clenched his eyes tight and bit down hard, the muscles beneath his cheeks tightening with the pressure.

Walking past a coffee shop, Richard caught the curious and worried glances and stares from many of the patrons; eyes peering over newspapers or pupils leaning far left while the face stared straight ahead. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what he looked like- but he felt amazing.

A park appeared across the street to his left, and he watched as children clambered over the twisted green jungle gym, their high-pitched voices shrieking with joy. Parents both cautious and otherwise occupied sat on the benches on either side; some with their hands loosely clasped before them, never looking away from their offspring, and others chatting with friends, seemingly ignoring the fact that their children were hanging from the bars with their legs, trying to pick up their Hot Wheels cars in the sand.

one night.

It was a cold, dark night, typical of most in late October. The slight change that this night held was the monster under the bed, waiting.

Steven lay underneath the covers, body so rigid that the small of his back didn’t touch the mattress. The little matchstick boy stared at the ceiling, but really waited for something to appear in his peripheral. He pushed his head further back into the pillow, watching both sides of the bed.

While his eyes pretended to watch the ceiling, his ears strained to hear the slightest slither, the scrape of dry, inhuman skin on the floorboards. He barely breathed to keep it as silent as possible, but his heartbeat raced out of control and echoed in his ears like war drums.

Ten years old. At ten years old you knew better than to lose sleep over whatever figments your imagination was coming up with in the late hours of the night. But he knew there was something there.

In the corner of his room, leaning against the wall, was his hockey stick. He thanked God that he chose a hockey stick over a new bike last Christmas, and cursed himself for not asking for a baseball bat. It would be difficult to use a hockey stick- it would be unwieldy, and hard to swing.

That being thought, he knew what he had to do. The full realization of his next, and very likely last, action caused his eyes to open wide, and he sucked in a deep breath.

Something large and scaly dragged itself past the boxes underneath the bed.

It seemed like hours before he released that breath. When he did, it was slowly, so that he felt like a slowly deflating balloon.

The monster had gone towards the left side of the bed.

This was his chance. The hockey stick was on the other side of the room, in the right corner. It leaned against the wall with all the might of Excalibur, promising salvation, or at the very least the feel of something hard and heavy.

He closed his eyes, and hoped this wouldn’t be the last time.

Steven threw the covers back over the left side of the bed, and knew in his head that they had landed on something. The sound of tearing cloth reached his ears as soon as his feet touched the ground, and he very promptly wet himself. He ran so fast that his forehead collided with the darkened wall, but his fingers wrapped themselves tightly around the handle.

Now he could fight back.

The creature had slid back underneath the bed, and turning around he felt its hot, putrid breath pour over his feet, even though the bed was at least four feet away. Two bright, yellow eyes reflected the streetlights outside, and they looked right into his.

He raised his hands over his head, grit his teeth, and brought the stick down hard on the floorboards. They struck with a resounding CRACK. His hands were numb, and they hurt, but he knew what he had to do.

Steven screamed at the top of his lungs and brought it down again, harder, feeling the wooden shaft almost shatter. The jaundiced eyes widened, and a heavy breath washed over his feet and ankles, causing them to start sweating.

The rest of his body was ice, and he shook like a leaf. He knew that although his scream had echoed throughout the entire house, no one was coming. He was all alone.

He levelled his arms and brought the hockey stick out, straight in front of him like a lance. In his mind he knew that only one of them would be left alive once it was all over.

This would be his one night stand.

jffe.

Sitting on that streetcar, you wondered why it all went down the way it did.

You sit in the stained, maroon seat and take a deep breath, inhaling the cool air with its hint of cigarette smoke and car exhaust. It fills your lungs, cold and dirty.

It’s so different from the smell of Irish Spring, that light green soap that lay scattered in boxes all over his bedroom floor. You remember how he told you about his mother, and how she had bought it in bulk, after he had mentioned how much he loved it.

The next stop is yours, and you stand up to yank on the cord. As the streetcar screeches to a halt, you almost stumble, but catch yourself on a handrail. Stepping down off the stairs and into the night air, you start the eight minute walk back to your house.

As you walk past silent street by silent street, the first raindrops begin to fall. They tap on the shoulders of your jacket, and you pull your tuque down over your ears, wondering why, in winter, it’s liquid dropping out of the sky instead of beautiful, fragile snow.

You remember the last time you can remember it raining. Walking down Dundas, his baseball cap pulled down over your mess of hair, keeping you dry. Taking in breath after breath you can recall what his hat smelled like, sweat and boy and just a hint of Irish Spring.

Walking along in the rain, you hunched over, damp and miserable. Looking up, you saw him shaking his head and smiling that crooked smile. Deep in your chest that feeling grew just a little more, and you silently begged those above the clouds to change things- to give you just one day.

But the arm never came down around your shoulders, never held you against his chest and warmed you up from the inside out. The distance between the two of you never shortened, and his hat kept the rain off of your head but didn’t do a thing for the rest of you.

All of the walks, and the talks, and the listening, you stuck with it. On the living room wall of your head, right above the fireplace, you hung a picture of the two of you, together. But you were the best friend, and you were good at what you did.

That’s all you were. JFFE. Just Friends For Ever.

pt.4 as it freezes.

It might have been two days later when he stood up from the easy chair, thirsty. Opening the fridge, he saw a can of soda sitting on the top shelf. Next to the can lay the sandwich. It lay there, crushed. His eyes fell to the cool tiles, and on the way down caught on a carton of orange juice. Grabbing it, he strode back to the living room, swinging the door shut behind him.

It was a week after that when he opened the fridge, stared in, and shut it again. He knew he was hungry, but- not for something cold. Cupboards were opened and sifted through, and expiration dates were glanced at while quick mental calculations took place. Finally his fingers closed around a familiar shape, and he pulled out a box of cereal. It did the job- but he wished he had milk.

The end of the month was nearing when his stomach led him to the kitchen and his feet stopped him short from the doorway. He stared into the darkened room and watched the microwave lights blink the time, small, green numbers that lived and died over and over again. His feet twisted and turned his body away, turning him towards the phone. Confident hands picked up the receiver and dialled his favourite pizza parlour.

Summer had died long ago. Autumn was gaining momentum and swiftly making way for winter when he waited, standing outside the doorway to the apartment. The key hesitated before the lock, thought it over, and plunged in, twisting itself and opening the way in. A palm pressed against the door and pushed it forwards, letting it swing slowly inwards. The apartment was growing darker; the fading sunlight streaming in, working in vain to fill up the room with its brightness.

Eyes stared into the dark. A right hand returned, with key, to a pocket, and exchanged house keys for car keys. A body turned and legs strode down the hall.

pt.3 up and ready.

He blinked once, twice, three times. With each open and shut his eyes took in the barely furnished room and the lonely television set. He stretched his fingers, and noticed the soft warmth of the sun on his right. His back and shoulders ached, and with the dull pain that lay in them he remembered where he was- and why he was.

Far behind him was a bedroom, completing the holy trinity by joining the kitchen and living room. Sitting on a table next to a neatly made bed, a clock radio began its mechanical screeching. Beep beep beep, it went, step forward, step forward, step forward.

He pulled himself out of the easy chair and wiped his face with both hands. Work started in half an hour. Closing both eyes, he let out a deep breath, and shuffled down the hall, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom.

Seven minutes later he was out and dressed. Striding into the kitchen, he opened the fridge. The cool air escaped its sealed prison, and drifted past his face, creating cool waves through his still-damp hair. The light was both cold and warm. On the top shelf lay the sandwich.

He stared at it jaws clenching and unclenching, his teeth feeling like they would shatter in his mouth. His left hand reached around to his back pocket and felt the familiar shape of his wallet.

He would buy lunch today.

pt.2 waiting to weep.

The drive home was uneventful. Nothing happened. At least, nothing he cared about happened.

It was a little after six when he got to the empty apartment. He stepped in, kicked his shoes into the open closet, and shut the door behind him.

He didn’t turn on any lights; the sun cast its fading glow through cool, pale grey clouds. His feet moved slowly, heavily, and took him to the small dark kitchen. Opening the fridge with his right arm he placed the crushed sandwich on the top shelf. It was still good for the next day.

Moving to the living room he slowly sat himself down into a worn easy chair. The television sat in front of him, dead; to his left the cold, dim light came in through the window. He sat there, waiting to cry.

He waited. Leaning back, he searched himself for the hurt, for the sorrow he knew lay there somewhere. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to force it out. It wasn’t like trying to pour out an empty cup- it was like trying to pour out a cup with a lid on it; a lid sealed tightly shut.

Sitting there, in the apartment growing slowly darker. He waited.

pt.1 good byes, gone bys.

She waited in line, stepping forward every five minutes, a few feet closer to gone. He watched her leave.

They had sat together at a café in the airport, squeezing out words that had to travel through a dense, awkward atmosphere. Knowing he had work the next day, he’d bought an overpriced sandwich; he’d even made a quiet joke about it. Now he clutched it in one hand, and watched her leave.

His breathing quickened, and he felt a familiar pressure behind his eyes; he would not shut them, would not risk letting the “dust in his eyes” streak tears down his face. He swore to himself, over and over and over- I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry. His right hand squeezed the sandwich, knuckles whitening.

She was two passengers away from the front of the line, and she turned around to give him, she swore, one last look. Staring back, between bodies and over heads, she saw him; saw him standing there, blank faced, something held tight in one hand. He was completely emotionless, showing nothing. She turned away. Covering her mouth with one shaking palm she pulled her bag forward with the other. There was only one more person in front of her.

fighting the sun.

The sun set at exactly eight thirty-seven pm. He had checked on the internet earlier, just like he had done for the past one year, four months, and six days. Having written this information down on his inner forearm he made to arrive exactly one hour earlier- just as he had done every day before.

His new shoes scuffed against the linoleum floor, over its scarred, worn surface. Led by his feet and routine he soon found himself standing in the middle of the gym, where at another time and date two very tall basketball players, many inches taller than him, would jump to gain possession of a large, orange ball.

Tilting his head heavenward he gazed up at the windows that opened up the wall just a few feet from the ceiling; three, wide windows with bars over the glass, cutting up the light into equal sized portions on the weathered floor. The window in the middle shone the sun’s last hour of light down onto the tips of his shoes, warming his toes and leaving the rest of his body in the shadow.

Standing there, knees locked and eyes in constant watch, he waited. The sunlight crept past the tips of his shoes and up to his ankles; crawled up his shins and onto his knees; washed over his thighs and glinted off his belt buckle; enveloped his stomach, and chest, and neck. And finally, finally inched his way up past his chin and tightly drawn lips, leapt over his pointed nose, and forced itself into his eyes.

There he stood- the last minute of sun blazing into his glaring eyes, fists clenched in insolent defiance. Knowing, knowing all too well that in a little over twenty seconds the sun would be gone, and that he would still be there standing, alone in a darkened gym.

perspectives:two

She was watching him; peering past the playground, pretending to watch the toddler and its hovering mother. He didn’t know who had sat down first, but as soon as the last tears had fallen he had gotten the unnerving feelings of eyes pointed in his direction.

Raising his head slightly, he peered past his greasy hair and through red, puffy eyes. He sniffled. The point had come where if he had a cool million dollars, he would go out and buy a box of Kleenex, the kind with twenty extra tissues. His head dropped back down, and he stared at the cement sidewalk, and watched the sun dry his tears.

Most people loved the spring, loved the fresh green everything and the life that burst through the pale grey bed sheet of winter.

He hated it.

It wasn’t even the ski slopes closing down for another year, or the transformation of pure, beautiful snow into a sickly, watery sludge, or even the overhanging shadow of spring-cleaning. It was his allergies.

His hatred for spring was directly connected to his teary, runny-nosed, head-throbbing, barely-breathing existence that started every single year, as soon as the snow melted and the appropriate wildlife had once again begun to thrive. Allergies as bad as his caught more glances than he would like, but that’s just how it was.

The girl across the playground wore, on the face that refused to admit it was watching, a look that he didn’t often receive from girls his own age. Most of the time it was a sort of disgust, or pity. This time, however, it appeared to be something entirely different.

perspectives:one

She watched the boy, sitting hunched over at the bench, elbows on his knees. Every now and then he would unclasp his hands to wipe his eyes, and sniffle. Past the green jungle gym and the bright yellow slide she watched him crying.

The second thing the girl noticed after seeing he was crying was that he was around her age. A sixteen/seventeen-year old boy crying on a bench at a playground was not something you saw everyday, and she wondered why; wondered about both why it was happening, and why it wasn't something you saw everyday.

After she noticed the first and second things, and had wondered a bit, she thought about how she could help him. It seemed to be an innate part of her species to help their own when they were weeping. There was also the added element of curiosity, a seed which now sown was waiting to overgrow her mind.

"It's probably a break-up," said her subconscious, a decently reliable source. She pondered what had been said, and, before dismissing it completely, ordered it to take a seat for possible further examination.

She wanted to help him. The seed had been plucked from the fertile soil of her brain and had been thrown out; the truck delivering the General Compassion had dropped off its delivery, and she had drank from the cool, refreshing bottle.

If only she could get up and walk, feet sinking into the sand, ducking her head under the colourfully painted metal bars, across the playground, and talk to him. That's all it would take- a simple walk, twenty, thirty steps.

She wished she had no feet. That would give her an excuse.

breakfast.

The boy had seen her, of course. He was staying at a hotel with his family- and over a day of that would have most teenagers begging for any kind of social interaction with similarly aged people; even if it was only imaginary.

Having only seen her, he wasn’t ready for the second of eye contact that sprung up on him when he caught her face-to-face, standing by the buffet table. He panicked. Though to say that that was his initial reaction wouldn’t be entirely true.

She had straight, blonde, perfect hair. Her big, brown eyes were rimmed with eyeliner, and they stared straight back at him. Everything about this girl screamed that she had found what she was looking for, whether it was on TV, or the Internet, or a magazine, and she had taken it, and owned it. And because of this, he felt an emotion that was a cross between disgust and disappointment, that halfway through that second, almost lapsed into anger.

Then he remembered panic, and the near-anger faded away into ambivalence and into that hair-raising feeling he should’ve been experiencing. Frantically searching his mind for some sort of action, he raised the right side of his mouth a fraction, raised his eyebrows, and walked off to where the drinks were, as slowly as he could.

And as the first half of the second was the disgust-into-anger and the second half was panic, so the next second was devoted to a mild curiosity. As he had turned away he had seen her talk to a dark-skinned Asian man. He wondered to himself. Does she know him? Are they related? Is she just asking some random guy something?

Walking back to his table with a plate in one hand and a glass in the other, he scanned the nearby tables, searching to see if she sat nearby. Sitting down, he ate, ignoring the breakfast conversation and thinking, thinking, thinking.

Finishing his food, he grabbed a key card and headed back to the room. Keeping an eye out, he was rewarded for his efforts when he saw her at a full table, on a lower level. Walking down the stairs he noticed that everyone else at her table appeared to be Indian.

He walked past them as slow and as fast as he dared. After walking through the doorway he came to a halt. He turned around, staring past the concierge-type person at the girl. Her profile was lit up by the bright morning sunlight streaming through the window, and she looked silent and out of place.

Heading towards the growing crowd by the elevator, he hoped that he would bump into her again; he didn’t know what he would do if he did, but- he wanted to. And never did.

june eight.

hello girl, good morning.
i’ve been waiting for this time-
a long, long time.
i’ve missed chances-
i know that.
you never give me time, to let them leave my mind.

we’re both asking questions silently
using staring eyes and whispered words
and then i can’t believe you’re asking me-
and my one excuse is maybe-

maybe 'cause i’m waiting for something,
and I want you to be that someone,
that someday.

maybe 'cause i’m waiting for something,
and I want you to be that someone,
that someday.
it hurts to wait-
it’s a day that’s always too far away.

sitting on that curb, hours from leaving.
i look disgusting and-
you’re putting the skies to shame.
pressing my head against yours
i’m hoping,
that you’ll know what I’m feeling-
and you’ll feel the same.

and maybe i’m waiting for something
and I want you to be that someone,
that someday.

maybe i am waiting for something
and I want you to be that someone,
that someday.
i’ll take my time- until you are genuinely mine.

subway.

Four people walk past, eager to be off the train and on to their business, or the one headed in another direction.

Walking left, and in somewhat of a hurry stomps a heft black man wearing a brown suit a little too large for him. It makes one wonder what larger man could have owned the suit previously, or how the tailor did such a terrible job. He is carrying a leather handbag, and rushes off to the escalator.

Following behind him, at a considerably slower pace, is a woman all in black. She is not one to skimp on the perfume, and all who are within three feet of her are offered the chance to smell her. It is an exotic, alluring odour, somewhat ill fitted to the overly curvaceous figure departing the station.

Coming from the other direction is a curious individual, clad in black t-shirt and jeans. Large black sunglasses take up much of his face, and a piece of folded paper sticks out of his front pocket. He marches forward, back completely straight as if in the military; the exposed skin is wrinkled, and weathered.

Striding forward with an awkward gait, the next person stares forward with a blank stare. His mouth remains slightly ajar all the while, and his left arm swings back and forth in time to his steps. Wearing a nondescript red shirt and jeans, his right palm lies on his stomach, never moving.

gross.

The foot came down.

Then came up again.

With his right leg raised he peered down at the rough blue carpet, straining to see what he had stepped on. It had felt slimy.

Both feet planted firmly on the ground he squatted, elbows on his knees. Lying there was a moist, blackish shape.

He walked into the next room, carefully stepping high over the thing. He grabbed a roll of toilet paper from a decrepit laundry machine and ripped off a handful. Turning back to the doorway, very carefully, he picked it up.

It was roughly two inches long, and looked like a thin slug. He turned it over in the tissue, looking for anything… noticeable. It was dark on the top, light, sickly brown along the bottom. There was a miniscule triangular opening near one end, the only discernible difference. It’s a leech.

His right foot tingled.

He could feel his lunch starting to come up. Sick sick sick sick. Crumpling up the wadded tissue with the ends of his fingers, he kept it as far away from his palm and the rest of his body. With one frantic motion he hurled it into a toilet on his left.

Still filled with disgust, he spat into the bowl, then urinated into it for good measure. He then flushed the toilet, holding down the handle for longer than he should have. Turning on the shower he wet the floor, and then proceeded to scrub the bottom of both feet against the tiles, hard. He then washed his face with icy cold water, still nauseous.

As he walked out of the back room he kept his eyes glued to the floor, searching for any more traces of… anything. Then he turned around and scanned the ceiling near the doorway. Nothing. There was just the usual stuff you’d find on a basement ceiling: dusty cobwebs.

He walked as fast as he could without running into the stairwell and the next room. Once his body touched the bed his feet sprung off the floor. He once again looked everywhere for them.

Later that night, as he lay in that same bedroom, staring straight up at the ceiling, he felt his right foot. It felt- sensitive. This is impossible, he thought. The skin on the bottom of my foot is way too thick for anything to happen. It’s impossible. He rubbed the bottom of his foot against his left calf, then stopped. Whatever happened to his foot, if anything happened, he wasn’t going to spread it to the rest of his body.

Eyes wide open, he imagined them crawling under the door that he’d shut and locked, creeping up the sides of the bed, sliming their way up the walls and dropping onto his face. He slept- but he didn’t sleep well.

grad band.

Pomp and Circumstance: Edward Elgar’s most widely known work, played at high school and college graduations all over North America. This evening’s event is the former, and the seniors, soon-to-be freshmen, march forward, over three hundred strong. They walk forward, roughly a foot of space between each one, eager to sit, stand, grab their diploma, and march right on out of there, smiling all the way.

The band is located behind the audience, shielded from the graduates by thirty rows of chairs. Each band member has been specially outfitted for the occasion in navy pants, white dress shirt, and garishly yellow tie. Somewhere within this group of students, awkward freshmen, cynical sophomores, and envious juniors is a story.

On the left of the high school band lies the woodwind section. As the graduation song passes the three-quarter mark three students can be seen, far left side, front row. They all wear the same attire as the rest of the band, and stand out merely because they are closest to the audience.

Farthest from the left is the only female of the group, shoulders slightly bent, hands lightly holding the oboe she’s playing. Her light brown hair is tied back into a simple ponytail, and her legs are crossed. Although her eyes are fixed on the music stand, a smile plays about her lips. There’s a joke that only she knows.

To her right is a tall boy, slouched over so far that the bottom of his clarinet is inches from the floor. He wears large, brown boots, his left foot lying so that its ankle is on the ground, his right foot on top of it. The music stand blocks off his face, but his fingers work the keys with practiced skill.

At the very corner sits the next musician, back ramrod straight. The clearly Asian boy seems to notice nothing but the music, and his eyes never stray once. His legs bob up and down, his toes pushing against the floor, left and right, on and on. His pants are clearly too short for him, and each bob reveals stretches of white sock.

jeans.

jeans- the paramount pinnacle of everday fashion.

a pair of pants that can fit the category of grungy, sexy, casual, or chic- depending on the length, style, material or fit. chances are, sitting with a group of friends, that at least two of them will be wearing jeans. no thought goes into wearing them really- you're going out and you put them on.

the issue for me when it comes to jeans is comfortability.

"well, evan," you may exclaim, "comfortability is Not a word!" to which i will non-confrontationally reply, "point being-" you may then exclaim (again, since you are by this time certainly riled up about being so harshly corrected), "what on earth are you talking about?" to which i will again non-confrontationally reply (since it's hard to be confrontational when you aren't sure if people read your blog), "why don't you just read, instead of asking so many questions?" which is my own way of answering your question with another, vastly superior one.


comfortablity [kuhm-fer-tuh-bil-i-tee] - noun

1. an object's level of comfort - usually used in reference to jeans.


jeans are, in a purely objective matter of speaking, more comfortable once they have been worn in. the wearing in process consists of the jeans, surprisingly enough, being worn. this process can take from any time between one to two years, depending on the overall activity of the user and the duration of time the jeans are worn.

but now i'm getting sidetracked. as i was saying, back in paragraph three, and, i will directly quote myself, "the issue for me when it comes to jeans is comfortability." allow me now to explain where i am coming from.

let us say that you, the reader has two pairs of jeans. this is of course entirely likely, as i am hoping you are teenager of similar age and viewpoint, and not some creepy, pedophilic old man. let us say, again, very assumedly, that one pair is old (and worn), and the other new. now i need not go into more lines explaining that, of course, the old pair is vastly superior in comfortability to the new pair. now what pair, logically, would you, the reader, wear? the old ones of course. no average, everyday teenager wakes up in the morning and thinks to themselves, "i have two pairs of jeans. one is new, and the other old. i think i shall wear the old ones to wear them in. thus resulting in gaining myself two, count them, two, pairs of comfortable, worn jeans." this does not happen. the teenager wakes up, showers and stuff, and then pulls on the old pair, because he, or she, does not feel like putting on a new, uncomfortable pair of jeans when another, way comfier pair of jeans is there.

suffice to say, it's a sorry, sorrowful cycle we're stuck in. and honestly, there is no easy way out of it. there are countless solutions- though none of them logically viable. you could rent your jeans out to another to wear in (or out), or you could spend more of your hard-earned, exceedingly precious money on jeans that have already been worn in, or you could, heaven forbid, wear that new pair of jeans every now and then.

i have laid out the facts. it is now up to you, the hopefully teenage and not pedophilic reader, to make your decision. will you opt to stay in this somewhat inescapable cycle, or will you do the unthinkable, and wear those new jeans?

friday evening.

the fading sun
shines right into our eyes
and at the back of your neck,
which is still slightly damp from the washing.
the candle, the bread, and the bottle of water
sit in the still, solemn grass,
as scripture is read aloud,
and prayers said.

faux real.

authenticity-
is eluding me.

he wrote-

he wrote in the soft, warm, golden sand-

laughing youths smashed the words with their vigor and joy.

he wrote in the cool, moist grey mud-

lapping waves smeared the words slowly and meticulously.

he wrote in the consistent shimmering surf-

water pulsed in and around and held nothing.

he wrote in the dry, frigid air-

whispering winds breathed away the letters.

he wrote in his head-

engraved in the grey matter the story stayed.

the writer's back.

the writer's back;

with a slouch in his shoulders,

and a drag in his step;

a tear in his eye,

and a spark in his head.

the writer's back.