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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
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.
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.
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