by Julie Wilson
p 174
THE MORE THINGS STRAYED, THE MORE THEY STAYED THE STRANGE.
Girlfriends
She looks forward to the morning commute. She’ll ride the subway to the end of the line and take two buses to the warehouse where she’ll take her place on the line next to Deb, a lifer married to Brad who’s always on the road, and Marlene, a late 40s pre-op transsexual who keeps her hair in a net because it gets frizzy in the humidity.
The snack boxes make their way toward them, the first row already complete: gum, lozenges, and mints. She readies her stock and fans them into place in the second and third row: a pack each of Peek Freans, Lemon Crisp, Digestives, Arrowroot, Fruit Creme, Nice, Shortcake, and two packs each of Dad’s Oatmeal and Oreo cookies.
She notices one of the Dad’s cookies has a tear in the wrapper. Once the boxes have moved down the line, she rips the package open, popping a cookie in her mouth whole. She wonders if she and Marlene could be friends, if Marlene wants friends. Cheeks full, she doesn’t swallow, and waits for Marlene to stop fussing with her net and look her way so she can test the waters by opening wide.
READER
Caucasian female, late 30s, with short, spiky blond hair, wearing baggy jeans, brown sneakers, and grey hoodie under secondhand orange, blue, and yellow ski vest.
We Need to Talk About Kevin
Lionel Shriver
(Harper Perennial, 2006)
p 56
The Curious Collector
When her son was young, he was a collector of curious objects. While her daughter combed the beach for long, slender cone shells and heart-shaped rocks, he was drawn to the oddities of imperfect fruit and vegetables — samples of which he kept in foul-smelling plastic bins she discovered during her weekly vacuum — skinned tennis balls, and placemats from the local Chinese restaurant signed and dated by the wait staff.
One morning, she began to wonder if he’d moved on to yet another hobby when she came across a dragonfly that had died on their back deck. A small wooden cross had been erected beside its body. Before she could remove it, her son pushed past her, his Polaroid camera poised. He took the picture, pulling the tab and counting down. “I love the light of early dawn,” he said, kicking the dragonfly between the wooden slats.
READER
Caucasian female, early 60s, with short blond hair, wearing glasses, tan coat, white collared shirt, and pale green silk scarf.
The Sweet Edge
Alison Pick
(Raincoast Books, 2005)
p 153
Sailor
They walk together down the beach. She could be as young as ten, he thinks, certainly no older than thirteen, which would be a six-year age difference. He flattens his part and tells her about life on a boat. The other vacationers flap the sand out of their blankets, heading up for dinner. He asks if she’s in a hurry. Does she have to be somewhere?
He can’t look away from her sea-green eyes, her sun-kissed nose, last week’s burn beginning to flake from her chest. He’s disturbed to think she might remind him a little of his baby sister.
He flattens his part again and grabs her hand, turning it palm up. Pressing a point on her wrist, he tells her that he’s heard that if he keeps pressing she’ll go limp in just thirty seconds. She freezes, holding his gaze. Her knees start to buckle at the twenty-second mark. He’s not even doing anything, he thinks. But as the girl crumples to the sand, he drops her arm and pushes his hands into his pockets, looking to see if they’ve been spotted. It’s just a mind trick, he says to himself. He’s done nothing wrong.
READER
Caucasian female, early 20s, with short brown hair and hoop earrings, wearing long, dark overcoat and green scarf, book bag slung over shoulder.
The Bell Jar
Sylvia Plath
(Faber and Faber, 1966)
p 127
Reception
Her job was to wait below while he climbed the tv antenna tower. Terry cloth shorts bunched between her chubby legs, she kept a lookout for adults, siblings, the school principal who lived next door, anyone with sense enough to call his parents. He would be quick. By his rules of the game, only once up and down constituted a closed case. Then they could retreat to the basement, where they would lie on the couch, “getting the girl” his reward for another mystery solved.
READER
Caucasian male, mid-30s, with full beard, wearing black dress pants, blue dress shirt, with sleeves rolled to elbows, and scuffed leather shoes.
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
Michael Chabon
(Picador, 2001)
p 72
Like Mother, Like Son
Mother: Look at your cousin Tess over at the crab dip. Girl looks like she could cry.
Son: Gran choked on a strawberry seed, you know. She’s still in the washroom.
Mother: How does someone choke on a strawberry seed?
Son: Exactly. Don’t eat strawberries.
Mother: Oh God, look. Tess is going for more dip.
Son: She needs to master the dip. I hear it’s one of the steps.
Mother: No, I think you have to call someone and tell them you love them.
Son: Anyone?
Mother: I really don’t understand how Gran can choke on something the size of a seed.
Son: She likes the attention.
Mother: Why is your father standing over by the hedges?
Son: Why is your husband standing over by the hedges?
Mother: Is he smoking? How old is that girl he’s with? Is that your second cousin?
Son: Jocelyn? Janice? It’s “J” something. She’s really grown up. You should go get your husband.
Mother: You should go get your father. People will talk.
READER
Caucasian female, mid-50s, with blond bob, wearing purple overcoat with poppy, carrying nylon thatched bag bearing a crest of an old leather golf bag.
The Outstretched Shadow:
The Obsidian Trilogy, Book One
Mercedes Lackey and James Mallory
(Tor Books, 2004)
p 76
Glory, Glory
In the church basement, the three young teens took a break from their puppet rehearsal, one song away from calling it a night. Despite the lingering smell of adhesive, one puppet’s moustache had fallen off, and another’s hair, brown yarn, required a touch-up.
While the troupe’s leader went up to the chapel for glue, the teens’ minds turned to games, the basement equipped with a basketball court and hockey nets. They rummaged through storage and found gear: gym mats, hockey sticks, hard orange balls.
As he was retreating to the closet in search of a Nerf football, she pulled the pastor’s son close. She wasn’t very popular. Her hair was short and greasy. She wore purple velvet knickers, a starched white blouse with frilly collar, and oversized leggings bunched at the ankles. However, the tetracycline had done wonders to her skin, and she’d always had pretty eyes. He, meanwhile, was a grade younger. The mole on his neck thumped as she leaned against him. His hair was parted firmly down the middle, cut to the rim of the smallest serving bowl reserved for pudding and his monthly trim. He wore black corduroys and a white baseball t with burgundy sleeves. His skin was dotted with whiteheads and his eyes were set just a little too far apart.
She put her hand on his crotch and told him to open his mouth so she could kiss him. He obliged, forgetting to breathe, his head spinning when the group’s leader started the music for their next number.
Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory.
READER
Asian female, late 20s, black hair twisted into ponytail, wearing grey overcoat and high-heeled suede boots, her bookmark a worn postcard of Jupiter.
Walk in the Light & Twenty-Three Tales
Leo Tolstoy
(Orbis Books, 2003)
p 235
Rumble Row
She grew up in a shabby, narrow house on the wrong side of the track. Twice a d
ay, once very early in the morning and again in the late afternoon, a cargo train rolled down the middle of her street, curving at the very end to cut through her backyard. The track had been built to go around her parents’ house, the only people on the street who’d refused to sell. Now twice a day, a train rolled by her bedroom window, a novelty that once made her popular among her classmates. But after the novelty wore off, the children no longer visited. She stood by the window — the girl on the wrong side of the track — while the pane rattled, and she waved somberly. Some days, the conductor waved back. Most days, he pretended to ignore her. It must not be easy, she thought, driving your train through someone’s backyard. Sometimes, the glass shook so violently she feared it would break. On those days, she’d press herself against the window, the vibrations tickling her deep down into her tummy, and she tried, once again, to imagine herself as the superhero who protects the world from the inevitable shards of glass, from all its injustices.
READER
Caucasian female, early 30s, wearing brown jacket, crisp blue jeans, and suede boots, black laptop bag tucked under her arm.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer:
The Long Way Home, Season 8, Issue 4
Joss Whedon, illustrated by Georges Jeanty, Andy Owens, Jo Chen
(Dark Horse, 2007)
near the beginning
Put to Pasture
The story was never told first-hand, just a family legend retold every few years when she and her mother drove out of town to pick raspberries. This stretch of road always freaks me out, is all her mother would say. The road was paved now, but some twenty years ago it was soft gravel, her grandmother a new driver like many women who only learned after their husbands left or died. It was dark, and she could expect to hit something along these roads at some point, be it deer or man. She never did stop to check.
READER
Caucasian female, mid-30s, with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing blue t-shirt, khaki capris, and leather sandals.
The Final Detail
Harlan Coben
(Island Books, 2000)
p 77
Of Age
On several occasions he’s driven Trevor home, always with the intent of making sure he arrives in time to make curfew and has had plenty of water and something to line his stomach. Trevor is fifteen and wants to be a clothing designer. The owners allow minors in the bar so long as they don’t drink, but what they do in the parking lot is their own business. He recognizes his own youth in Trevor’s fair-haired biceps and tucked-in t-shirts. He thinks of him like a little brother, these first few months out of the closet so crucial. He considers himself Trevor’s life coach — save for that first fumble in the back seat before he knew how young he was.
READER
Caucasian male, 60s, with close-cropped white hair, wearing black leather jacket, and red, white, and black skull cap, smoking pipe.
Lolita
Vladimir Nabokov
(Vintage, 1991)
near end
When You Least Expect It
When you least expect it, he’s been told. Stop looking and when you least expect it. He stares out the window counting house numbers, a game he’s played since youth. Pick a number and imagine yourself the home’s owner. 458. 460. 462. The streetcar rolls past a house with a worn couch on the front porch and a stack of soaked boxes leaning in the corner. He picks another number far ahead, spends the time considering the woman who sits two seats ahead reading a new paperback, something with a mustard cover. He’ll look out for it, the book with the mustard cover. 1236. When the house appears, its tidy front lawn is dotted with trees. Is that a Japanese maple? What does he know about trees? He looks again at the reader who pulls a stray hair behind her ear, her finger hovering by her lobe as if she’s forgotten to lower her arm, because she has. Yes, he thinks, the trees could be her job. And the kids can rake the leaves while he stirs the milk for hot chocolate.
READER
Caucasian male, mid-30s, with short blond hair, wearing a green hooded jacket, brown leather shoes, and deeply creased black jeans.
The Blue Light Project
Timothy Taylor
(Knopf, 2011)
p 246
Secret Santa
Champagne and orange juice, the gateway cocktail, she thought as the new office admin hurried about the kitchenette. Everyone was on their second round of mimosas, but she politely rejected his offer of a top up. How old was he, anyhow — twelve? Should he even be handling alcohol? She looked at the clock and timed how long she’d have to endure small talk with virtual strangers, until her holiday could officially begin. Three hours. Christ Almighty. Most of her co-workers who she actually liked — who liked her — had booked off early, leaving her to suffer through Secret Santa with the knowledge that of the four remaining staff, at least two seemed to genuinely loathe her, and one, well, at least they could look each other in the eye again after that faulty lock incident in the washroom.
The admin dangled a small gift bag in front of her, the tag left blank. “There was a mix-up with the names,” he whispered. “But, we didn’t want you to go home empty-handed.” He smiled. His teeth are the colour of first snow, she thought, folding her lips into a flat grin.
As the others tore into their presents, she pulled a tiny gorilla key chain from the bag, a wad of tissue paper falling to the floor. She pressed a button on the gorilla’s belly, a fond memory rushing forward of a stuffed monkey she’d had as a child that yodelled when you poked its chest. The gorilla’s eyes flashed a blinding blue, its screech cutting through the din of conversation. Her co-workers stopped to look in her direction. If she could will herself to laugh right now, they might believe she was actually enjoying herself.
READER
Caucasian woman, mid-30s, with long blond hair, wearing black, floor-length wool coat and grey knit hat with two large wooden buttons on the side.
The Waterproof Bible
Andrew Kaufman
(Random House Canada, 2010)
p 75
TO HAVE AND TO SCOLD, TOWARD A DAY FAR WORSE, OR BETTER.
XXX-XXX-XXXX
He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. He lets his head fall, chin to his chest, book falling open limp on his knee. He shifts a bit and rights himself, squinting at an ad across the aisle. He reads everything. Posters. Logos. He nods, not necessarily because he agrees. It could be that he’s remembering, some past conversation, maybe from this morning, more likely from late the night before. He shakes his head. His point wasn’t taken. He puts his glasses back on, and cocks his head to the side, taking in the contents under the seat adjacent to him: a Fairlee bottle emptied of its 100% Pure/Pur orange juice from concentrate. He swivels to look overhead. Call us at xxx-xxx-xxxx. His lips never stop moving.
READER
Caucasian male, early 20s, with short brown hair and thin sideburns, wearing glasses with red frames, grey coat, jet-black jeans, and charcoal slip-on Vans.
Fruit
Brian Francis
(ECW Press, 2004)
p 47
Monsters in the Bones
When she came to, a homeless man was standing over her. She’d fallen from her bike. It had been a bad fall. The damn tracks grabbed her tire. Gonna have monsters in the bones for a good long time, the man said. But you take this, the offer of a loonie extended from his dirty fingers. He let the coin drop awkwardly onto her chest. The coffee shop will let you stay for an hour if you buy a cup.
READER
Caucasian female, mid-20s, with brown hair loosely pulled into a ponytail, wearing jade earrings, pink racerback tank top, black yoga capris, thick wool socks, hiking shoes, and nose ring.
The Gabriel Hounds
Mary Stewart
(HarperTorch, 2006)
p 68
Wedding Dress
He stands alone in his grandmother’s bedroom, collecting bags of dead batteries, used Kleenex balls, and loose safety p
ins from her side table. Her bed still holds the indent of her form. He lies in the depression, facing the window to see what she would have seen, listening to the chatter coming from the schoolyard outside.
She’d taken his hand and rubbed it over her lower stomach. “Can you feel it? It’s massive.” She’d gotten so tiny, half her size, small enough to fit into her wedding dress again. Said she’d taken it out from storage, the tiring task of putting it on consuming the morning and two pots of tea. Finally, standing in front of her mirror, she saw herself sixty years earlier; she would begin to raise their four children alone. She’d undressed, rolled the gown into a ball, and gone out into the hall in her stocking feet to thrust it down the garbage chute.
He gets out of the bed, back to the chore of removing dried masking tape from her wardrobe mirror, the years of Christmas and birthday cards packed into a fresh large envelope purchased from the drugstore on the corner.
READER
Caucasian female, mid-20s, with brown curly hair pulled back in clip, wearing vest, knitted sweater, long jean skirt, thick stockings, and hiking boots.
The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing
Melissa Bank
(Penguin, 2000)
p 220
Wearing Her Indoor Face
She forgot, and now she’s wearing her indoor lipstick outside. The filter of her cigarette is stained bright orange. Five more minutes on the last load of drying and she can get out of here.