 
RECORD TWO: NIGHT AND DAY

Copyright © 2013 by Allthing Publications

Smashwords Edition

With stories by Carine Abouseif, Amir Ahmed, Alain Latour, Cathy Terefenko, Catherine Lopes, Jodelle Faye DeJesus, Rasheed Clarke, Sufian Malik, Christy Moffat, Luke Sawczak, Melissa Carter, Agnes Wakulewicz, and Chiamaka Ugwu.

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The thirteen authors in this collection retain and hold their individual respective rights to their stories. Opinions and stories presented in this publication are exclusively of the authors, and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors, or of Allthing Publications. Additionally, Allthing Publications and the editors take no responsibility for accuracy of facts, names, or events represented in this publication.

The cover for this book uses an eye icon drawn by Ayesha Rana from The Noun Project. It is licensed under the Creative Commons CC BY 3.0.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Champagne Birthday by Cathy Terefenko

Rain in Beijing by Amir Ahmed

Harbourfront Man by Agnes Wakulewicz

Fighting Noise by Jodelle Faye DeJesus

Snow through the Window by Alain Latour

Belinda's Tragic Genes by Melissa Carter

91 Days by Christy Moffat

Support by Rasheed Clarke

Wrong Wrong Wrong by Sufian Malik

Put some Ice on it by Carine Abouseif

Derek by Catherine Lopes

Double-walker by Luke Sawczak

Orange and Red on Jarvis Street by Chiamaka Ugwu

Acknowledgments

Foreword

My DJ name is Jack the Tripper.

I'm not even sure what exactly DJs do, but there you have it: an alter ego that no one else knows about.

I'll probably never have to use my DJ name, but having it feels good sometimes. It's a secret up my sleeve—a second self to keep from the world.

The DJ name doesn't suit me: I'm musically, socially, and physically inept. While my peers spent their university years dancing, I was learning how to make an N64 emulator work. That's the Amir that my friends and family know, and they'd never suspect that there was a tiny bit of Jack hiding inside my head. But maybe, one day, Jack will come out. Wow some folks at a club. Drop a beat. Kill the lights. Watch the place transform

We think we know a person. We think we know how the world works. We think we know our towns, neighbours, and homes.

And we do.

But then the air changes. Then the lights go out. And suddenly, we're not sure of anything.

The point of these anthologies is to document little stories from little people. In this issue, I wanted to explore what happens when the lights go out—the difference between what we know and what's out there. What we see, and what we get. What we want, and what we do. Sometimes, the difference is small. But other times, it's night and day.

Amir Ahmed

July 15th 2013, Mississauga

**Champagne Birthday**

Cathy Terefenko

"I have been looking forward to this for, like, ever, Anna, you don't even know, okay. We haven't gone out for, like, a month! I am so ready to get smashed, amiright?!"

I don't respond about if she's right. I'm in the front seat, keeping a bouquet of roses between my legs. The flowers are pretty, and I'm trying desperately keep them upright in the vase as Anna speeds along the DVP.

Maggie asks me something. I ask her to repeat.

"I said," Maggie repeats, "what about you, Cathy? Are you excited? This is your first time, isn't it?"

"Not really." The car makes a sharp turn. The roses jerk, and I steady the vase.

"It's just a lounge, right?" I ask. "Polly dragged me to one when Nat came to visit. I'll probably just get a drink or two and find a place to sit while you guys dance or whatever."

We've been driving for a good twenty minutes. I have no idea where we are, until Anna says we're in Toronto.

I hate Toronto.

There is a long silence in the car; only the fast rap song can be heard coming from the speakers softly.

"Are we picking anyone else up before we get to the lounge?" I ask.

I look over to Anna. She looks like she's deciding what she should say.

"Um, no," she says. "Not picking anyone else up..."

Maggie laughs from the back seat.

"You should just tell her we're already in Toronto, she can't leave."

What?

"Tell me what?" I ask.

They both laugh.

"Hahaha," I attempt. "No, seriously, tell me what?"

I look over to see Anna give a meaningful glance into the rear-view mirror.

"Well, since you're so interested in knowing, we aren't going to a lounge."

I can feel my stomach in my throat.

"Then where are we going?"

Anna and Maggie giggle to themselves, a high-pitched set of tee-hees.

I repeat, "No, seriously, where are we going?"

They don't answer.

"Guys, I'm serious. Tell me where we are going or, so help me, I will jump-roll out of this car."

"Don't be so dramatic, Cat," Anna says while rolling her eyes.

"We are going..." In the back, Maggie starts to slap her thighs in a mock drumroll motion, then, at the same time, they shout:

"TO A STRIP CLUB."

I hear myself laughing.

"Yeah, right. Strip club. That's totally happening."

"Yup," Maggie says.

I laugh some more. "Haha, very funny. You got me. Seriously, though, we're going to a lounge, right?"

Anna smirks.

Oh dear God.

No.

No.

No.

No. No. No. NO!

How they hell did they manage to keep this a secret?! Everyone at work knew about tonight. Does that mean everyone knows? EVERYONE? Even the cute produce guy? Oh, please, God, no. I told him I was looking forward to tonight. DOES HE THINK THAT I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO GOING TO A STRIP CLUB NOW!? WHY?!

"But," I squeak. "But everyone at work? Is that why Jessie isn't coming tonight?!"

Anna adjusts her curled hair as we pull up to a red light.

"No, Jessie legit had to write an essay. But I told everyone at work to keep it a secret so you wouldn't be able to make up an excuse."

The light turns green. Anna pushed her foot on the gas. The car surges forward, bringing me forward to my fate.

Everyone lied to me. Everyone. I have been lied to.

I stare out the window. She's only going sixty. It wouldn't actually kill me if I jumped out right now. I might need a trip to the ER, but I wouldn't die.

I could call a cab when I get there, but Anna wouldn't tell me where we are. Plus, I don't even have my cellphone; I left it in Anna's apartment where we were getting ready.

Oh God, this is actually happening. I am going to go to a den of iniquity. My soul will be tarnished and Grandma will see it happen from Heaven.

After driving for a few more minutes, Maggie humming in the back to the rap song, Anna almost shaking out of her seat with excitement, and me three panicked breaths away from a nervous implosion, we pull up to a TD Bank to park the car. We walk a corner over to a small, nondescript building and go through a door. Down a long, narrow staircase and we are officially inside "Klub Kave". I pick up a business card so that I have something to do with my hands, and notice the address. We aren't even in Toronto. We are in Etobicoke. Anna told me we were in Toronto to throw me off.

There is no way this night can get any worse.

Then it does.

It is obvious that I won't get through tonight without some emotional trauma. I need alcohol.

I order a cosmo right out of the gate. Cosmos are the drink of strong, independent women who are ready to let loose for the night. It is gross. I can't believe they charged eight dollars for it. The taste of cranberry juice lingers in my throat.

I turn to look at the club.

This was going to be bad enough when we were just going to a club. Now, I am in a figurative hell, holding a drink I hate, clutching my jacket to me like a lifeline, trying not to watch a mostly naked man thrust his hips in my cousin's face. Someone must have bought her a lap dance while I was getting my horrible drink.

One of my coworkers, Catherine, must notice my discomfort. She nudges me playfully in the side. I see Olga in the corner, talking to the bartender. She slips something into his hand and makes her way over to us.

"Come on, guys, we're moving to the front."

I grab my jacket and spill a little of my awful drink onto the leather couch as I get up. I manoeuvre between the cramped tables and chairs to the tables right in front of the stage. There is a man in a fireman's plastic red hat and yellow trunks swinging around on a chain attached to the ceiling in front of our new table.

I see a sign on the surface of our new sitting area saying that these seats are reserved for patrons who have had a "minimum of five drinks". That explains what Olga was giving the bartender. The tall, heavyset man comes over with a giant tray of shots. Olga stands up and signals for us to be quiet.

I've barely said a word since we got our IDs checked; silence really won't be a problem for me.

"On this momentous day, we are celebrating Anna's champagne birthday! Here's to another year of laughs, loves, and parties! Yeah!"

She signals us all to take a shot. I see Paula take a sip from her water bottle. I'm guessing she's the sober driver tonight and will be making our responsible decisions for us. I feel a wave of anger overcome me for a moment. Everyone in this circle knew where we were going tonight and they all kept it a secret from me. I am in a group of liars. Then the vodka kicks in and the room gets just a bit more hazy.

The next man makes his way to the stage after the fireman gets his applause. I had always wondered how Canadians tip strippers. We don't have one-dollar bills like Americans—do we throw loonies down their underwear? Do they jingle as they walk away? Do they get coin-shaped bruises from the loonies and toonies being chucked at the stage?

I want to order a martini. Not a cosmo. I don't want to ruin my image of another iconic drink that I have always wanted to try but never had an excuse to. So I order, sigh, a "sex on the beach" instead.

Dammit, why does everything have cranberry juice in it?

I see Olga on stage, gyrating with the man dressed in white trunks with a red cross over the crotch and a stethoscope around his neck. This is her third time on stage, one of which was a contest of musical chairs (the strippers were the chairs) to win a miniature vibrator.

I see Anna and Polly smirking at each other and pointing at me out of the corner of my eye. I pretend not to notice because I really, really do not want to know.

I order a Long Island iced tea. The drink where you want to get drunk without realizing how much alcohol you are actually drinking. I like it. It's sweet and I can barely taste the inebriating stuff. It is the drink of my people— those "people" being they who do not want to remember what the hell happened last night.

When I get back to the table, half the girls have gone outside for a smoke. Anna is leaning over the table towards the stage, giving a man in a police hat and thigh holster a five-dollar bill. I set my drink on the table and am about to sit down when I notice the stripper reaching out for my hand.

No. Dammit. No. Why does he want me on stage? What did she do? What the hell did she do?! I don't want to do this but I feel Anna pushing me to the stage and the man pulling me around the stages steps.

I stand on stage in an almost-out-of-body experience. I can't believe this is happening to me. My hands are at my side as the man dances in front of me. I stare at anything but him. The ceiling, the ground, the bachelorette party hooting in the corner. My cousin grinning so widely I think her face might split in half.

I feel him grabbing my hands which were clutched at my sides. He leans in and whispers in my ear, "Grab my ass," and then places my hands on his posterior. I am so shocked I can't even think about doing anything. I stiffly move my hands over their placed position and have officially offended the man in front of me.

I am sorry. I am so uncomfortable that I have offended this man who probably makes more money in a night than I will with my super-useful English degree.

The song finally ends and my torture is ended for the moment. The man gives me a loose hug and kisses my cheek and gestures for me to get off the stage.

I make my way back to the table and scowl at Anna who sits there, looking all too pleased with herself. She can tell all she needs to know about my current feelings by the bright red flush and uncomfortable grimace.

"I hate you."

She gives a toothy grin.

"You're welcome."

Some of our companions return to the table and are immediately regaled with all that transpired while they were gone. Olga immediately curses her nicotine addiction and begins to mercilessly tease me.

The night is almost over and we all have morning shifts. Olga gets her last dance of the night and we make our way out of my hell.

"I want a picture of us all!" Maggie shouts.

I immediately offer to take it because there can be no proof that I was ever here.

The picture is taken.

I will never live this down.

**Rain in Beijing**

Amir Ahmed

When Jullion, Ryan, and I elbow past the crowd flooding into the silk market, when we dodge the last of the merchants selling jewellery and "I heart BJ" t-shirts, when we finally push past the silk market's double doors into the Beijing afternoon, we stop short beneath the ledge overhanging the entrance, and look up at the sky.

It's raining.

"Holy shit," Ryan murmurs.

Beyond the ledge, a thick curtain of rain roars down on the city. The water beats a static whine on cars, trees, and asphalt. It batters the squat neighbourhood walls, the heaps of trash, the cars parked in and on and across the street in haphazard Beijing fashion. It explodes on the pavement like tiny atom bombs, raising a fine mist that snakes above our ankles.

A warm, wet gust blows our way. The rush of rain bends to reach us beneath the ledge. Stray raindrops pelt my chest, and sink into my thin shirt.

An hour ago, it was a normal day in Beijing: humid, bustling, and smelling of hot car fumes. It wasn't a normal day for me: it's my second day here, and I'm still getting used to the overwhelming presence of this city that swallows people and belches smog. I spent all of yesterday holed up in my new apartment, with the cupboard handles that tear off when I try to open them, the fridge that keeps drinks at a steady room temperature, and the toilet that spontaneously bubbles up the smell of dry sewage.

To avoid dealing with my apartment, I went with Jullion and Ryan to haggle at the Silk Market—essentially a four-storey flea market. The silk market is the most popular shopping destination for tourists in Beijing: a place where the stall owners sell anything from counterfeit antiques to counterfeit iPads. When the owners aren't shouting at customers to buy things, they take naps in the stairwells, squatting with their knees to their chests and their heads tucked under their arms like birds.

We entered the silk market at one o'clock. Not a cloud in the sky. It's three now, and the city has gone dark under black clouds.

My toes feel cold. I look down. A thin skin of water glides over the pavement, climbing over my rubber soles and into the fabric lining of my trainers.

"What do you think?" Jullion asks. "Subway?"

Jullion has been my hero in China. Calm, collected, and six years older than me, he's the funniest, friendliest, coolest guy I've ever met. He spent our trip to the Silk Market laughing off the vendors trying to sell him t-shirts with portraits of Obama on them, shouting, " _Ta ye shi hei ren_!"

"I don't know..." Ryan looks over to where I think the subway is—it's hard to tell beneath the rain. "Can we make it back without Olivia?"

Ryan is a sullen Asian guy from Toronto. He doesn't speak much Chinese, and I'm pretty sure he voted for Stephen Harper in the last election. It's hard to get a word out of him—and I think he's been hit even worse than me by homesickness.

"Cab!" I shout. "There's a cab!"

A green and yellow cab pulls in to the curb. It stops, and three Indian girls come out, hands on their heads, shrieking as they run towards the Silk Market entrance.

We run for the free cab. The rain hits me like a wave. Warm, gritty water pelts my face and streams down my neck. Cold slivers creep down my shoulders. My shirt flattens and clings to my chest. The stuffed panda I bought for Carine is in my satchel. I hunch over to keep it dry.

The passenger door to the cab hangs open. The driver smirks as we barrel into the car.

" _Ni hao_ ," I say to the driver as I plunk into the front seat. The car smells of cigarette smoke and perfume.

"Hi," Jullion says as he slips into the back seat. Ryan follows Jullion in and shuts the door without a word.

"Where are you guys going?" the driver asks in Chinese.

I freeze.

I haven't figured out how to speak to locals yet. It's a strange paralysis that I discovered when I first tried to buy some granola bars at the shop beneath my apartment: I can understand Chinese when it's spoken to me, but when I try to speak here, my tongue locks. The words that danced out of my mouth at home get caught in my windpipe, letting out only a few basic things—good, yes, hello, thank you. How do I say where I live? I don't even know where we are.

I look over to Jullion. He reaches forward to touch the driver's shoulder. He says, in clear Mandarin, "Can you take us to the Wudaokou subway station?"

The driver nods.

I breathe. Of course. Any cab driver knows how to get to a subway station, and Wudaokou station is a five-minute walk from where we live.

The driver turns the key. The engine knocks to life. The fare gauge starts up at 10 RMB in neat red numbers.

I consider strapping in, but don't. It's rude here—like you're insulting the driver's skill. The driver hits the gas. He jerks the wheel left. We spin in a fast, tight U-turn, and enter the opposing lane. _Smack!_ The force sends my head against the window.

I decide to strap in after all. The Silk Market disappears behind us.

A bolt of lightning flashes in the distance. I've never seen lightning like it before. In Canada, lightning is a skinny crack of light in the distance. Here, it's a column of blazing, holy fire. The sky cracks apart, and thunder shakes the ground. I feel the sound in my teeth.

It's all the crap in the air, I think. The dust and dirt are probably acting as conductors.

The driver pumps the gas pedal. He punches down the horn, and keeps it there. The tires squeal over the wet pavement. The horn wails.

We're entering traffic.

Beijing traffic is a microcosm of China. It's fast. It's noisy. It's chock-full of people pushing forward, shoving, and honking everyone else back. Everyone is on the road, from government Audis to middle-class scooters to—once—a horse-drawn wagon filled with watermelons. And, like China, it works best when you don't think about how it works.

Chinese drivers don't signal; they honk. They don't give or receive right-of-way; they just go. They don't check their blind spots—they veer into a new lane, pushing other drivers back in a game of chicken. It's dangerous. Beijing has ten times the traffic accidents per capita than North America. Navigating the capital's streets requires finesse, nerves, and a strong shouting voice; the common word for cab drivers is _shifu_ , "master"—a title usually reserved for kung fu teachers.

Our driver honks his horn. The cab spills into a crowded lane. We're ready to hit a blue Nissan that stands its ground, until, at the last excruciating second, it pulls out and makes way for us.

The closest street outside the silk market is narrow and crowded. The cab lurches into every free space, then stops just short of a traffic accident. My head bobs back and forth.

Jullion's phone rings. "Hello?"

The driver swerves around a slow-moving lane and charges into a free one. My foot pumps a brake pedal that isn't there.

"It was Stacey," Jullion says. "She says the subway tunnels are flooded. They're coming back up to look for cabs."

"We're too far to help them?" Ryan asks.

"Definitely," he says.

Our driver careens into an ascending lane. He darts between a truck and an electric scooter and charges at a line of unmoving traffic. He hits the brakes. Water splashes up against us and we jerk to a stop, just avoiding a collision with a silver Toyota.

The line doesn't move. Another car comes up behind us, honking.

The cab is still. The rain is getting worse. It beats the roof of the car like hail.

I sneak a glance at the cab driver. His eyes stay on the road.

We jerk onto a ramp, and onto an ascending road. The gearbox kicks beneath us and the engine revs. We're gaining ground and altitude fast. I can see the Beijing skyline from here. From here, I can see the city rests inside a bowl. The clouds are a solid black mass above us, spitting streaks of lightning.

The rain comes in gusts against the windshield. The wipers beat back and forth, showing brief glimpses of the city's skyline. Beijing's buildings are low to the ground, and stained grey with dust. Sharp angles and clean shapes dominate. I think I see the CCTV headquarters—also called the Big Underpants Building because it looks a bit like a pair of boxers—lit up from behind by a massive bolt of lightning.

"Where are you from?" the driver asks.

Jullion leans forward, one elbow on each front seat.

"These two"—Jullion points to me and Ryan—"are Canadian."

"Huh," the driver says. "And you?"

"I'm American," Jullion says. He pats the driver on the shoulder. "Hey, what about you?"

"Eh? I'm Chinese," the driver says.

"No, no, you must be an American too!" Jullion says.

The driver laughs so I can see the back of his mouth. His teeth are stained from tobacco. "That's right. I'm from California!"

A column of lightning strikes less than a kilometre away. Immediately, a crack and roar split the air. My ears ring.

" _Cao_ ," the driver mutters. His shoulders stiffen, and he looks sideways at me, like he's embarrassed. _Cao_ is a swear, the equivalent of "fuck" in English. I heard that Chinese people don't like to swear around foreigners.

Another bolt arcs down.

" _Niubi ah_ ," I say. Another Chinese obscenity that literally means "cow vagina", but can also mean "fucking awesome".

The driver's shoulders go down. He smiles, just a bit.

The cab fare is at 20 RMB.

"Hey, what's that?" Ryan points to the right, near a lane that's closed for construction. "Is that—?"

We all turn to look. There's a small black shape hugging the rightmost part of the rightmost lane. It's a man in a wheelchair. He's pushing himself up the road. He's drenched. Needles of rain rush at him. Waves splash up from the passing cars and into his face. He ignores it, and keeps on going.

"Wow," the driver breathes. I shake my head slowly.

The driver punches the gas. We soar higher. The man in the wheelchair vanishes behind us.

We stay on this road for a while. The driver's put the radio on to a crosstalk show. Men with thick Beijing accents tell jokes to each other over pre-recorded laughter. Occasionally, he switches to a news channel, where a robotic female host reads out broadcasts I can't understand—except for phrases like "subways flooded" and "flights cancelled". The wipers beat a steady rhythm against the windshield.

When the fare gauge reaches 45, the driver looks to the right. The lane is blocked by a silver SUV. He honks and moves into the lane. He doesn't bother signalling.

The SUV honks back. The driver presses closer. We're less than a foot away from ramming into the car.

The SUV backs down; we're in the lane. The lane is a ramp down. We're going back into the city.

We clear an overpass and enter a major road. There's a line of people in drab raincoats mounted on the traffic islands. They don't move from their spots. They're just waiting for the rain to end. The driver shakes his head at them.

The cab turns left. A wall of cars greets us. We've found a jam. A black Audi is blocking our lane into an intersection. Every black Audi in the city is a government car. This one's windows are open. There's no one inside.

Our driver loops around the Audi, dives into opposing traffic, and blares his horn as we charge into the flooded intersection. A wave splashes up as we turn back into traffic.

The driver swears again. He plays with the gears, and we explode out of the water. We splash some people on electric scooters driving through the murky pool of water. The water ripples past their knees.

"Hey, you guys smoke?" the driver asks. He pulls out a pack.

Jullion makes a face and shakes his head.

"Ah, that's right." The driver puts the pack away. "Americans don't smoke, right?"

"It's not good for you," Jullion says.

We're approaching an intersection. Nothing is moving, but somehow our cab edges between the stationary cars and barrels into the clearing. The intersection is built lower than the rest of the street. It's flooded with a foot of water. The driver charges through it. Water splashes up to the windows as we roll through. Water swallows our wheels, but the cab keeps going.

It's a while before we see a spot I know: a set of white apartment buildings with a green sign and gold characters. This is Chengfu Road. We're back in Wudaokou.

The driver takes us down Chengfu, and the buildings become even more familiar. There's the congee place I wanted to try. And there's the street that leads to the sketch-as-hell expat bar, Helen's. And there, on the horizon, with its sprawling staircase and big, black windows, topped by its wave-shaped subway tube, is—

"Wudaokou Station," the driver says.

Something tight in my chest finally relaxes. Wudaokou is safe. I know how to get around here. The university where we study is just around the corner, the grocery store less than a block away from that. There's the Hello Kitty store, the massage parlour, and the tattoo van that somehow manages to stay in business.

The driver pulls in front of the station. There's very little traffic now, and he hardly has to honk at all.

"All right, kids, I'm off," Jullion says. He adjusts his baseball cap with the red Communist star and pats each of us on the shoulder.

"Are you going to be okay?" Ryan asks.

Jullion gives a thumbs-up. "My homestay is two minutes away. I'll be good."

The fare's reached 67 RMB. Jullion passes me his share and runs out into the rain. His clothes instantly grow sopping wet, clinging to his chest.

Now, Ryan and I just need to get home. We both live in at the Fu Run apartment complex.

"Where to now?" the driver asks. He turns back to Ryan, probably assuming his Chinese is better than mine. "Am I dropping you off both at the same place?"

Ryan doesn't meet the driver's eye.

"I don't know what he's saying," Ryan says to me, in English.

The driver looks at me. My chest tightens.

"Uh..."

I search my memory back to when I was driving with Peng and his wife in Canada. Peng, the 40-year-old music teacher from Shanghai who I met at my kung fu school. They invited me over to help me practise my Chinese. Once I was driving with him, and he said...

_Yizhi qu._ Straight ahead.

_Zou guai._ Left turn.

Okay. I take a deep breath. I got this.

"You need to go straight ahead, and make a left turn at the next intersection," I say. My Mandarin is perfect, just like back home.

The driver nods. He switches gears, and I feel the engine kick beneath our feet.

I direct the driver past the BLCU campus and right off of Xueyuan Street. We stop right in front of the apartments where Ryan and I live. The drive took 47 minutes, and came to 70 RMB.

Ryan gets out and waits in the rain while I pay the driver. I want to leave him a tip, but I heard it's rude to do that here. My Mandarin is freezing up again, so I say some incoherent thanks. He drives off.

The halls of my apartment are empty when we come in. The lights in the front desk are off. I edge through the narrow lobby hallway with its stained white plaster walls and scuffed green tiles. I take the elevator up to the eleventh floor, to my room.

My apartment is a bachelor's with enough room for a bed, a TV, and a sofa. When I lock the door behind me, I throw off my wet shirt, put Carine's stuffed panda on my desk, plug in my netbook, and watch _Lucky Star_ on my computer.

Outside, the rain pours down.

**Harbourfront man**

Agnes Wakulewicz

_A breeze whirls between thin birch trees and crawls through the weaves of my white blouse. I wade through outreaching pine branches and follow the evening summer sun beyond the forest._

_The sun sets high over the horizon as I step onto concrete. I walk towards a black steel railing running along an old fishing harbour. The wind chills my skin. I step on the ledge and lean on the railing pressing heat into my waist. I look below into the basin of deep blue seawater. Cruisers, bow riders, and consoles tilt from side to side in the waves._

_Baseball caps and shady opaque sunglasses. Dark red wine bottles and long white cigarettes. Black charred knees and grey fishnets. I lift my hand to my brow and notice a smaller cabin cruiser by the mouth of the harbour._

_I squint to read the words in yellow cursive on a sign over the cabin._ _The best days are spent by the sea—The Jacobsons._

_A man reels in his fishing rod. He mumbles with a cigarette clamped between his lips. Grey curly hair spills from the sides of his Blue Jays baseball cap and meets the line of hair under his chin. The man next to him drops his fishing pole and they both ease a flopping white bass onto the boat._

_The two men gut the bass, whistle, and puff their cigarettes while silver-scaled creatures circle, tug, and flee from the bait scattered in the water below._

_I dig into my red sling bag filled with maps, pamphlets, and historical brochures. I flip aside Kent Wilkens' book_ _Georgian Bay Sunsets_ _. Earlier today, I explored Kent Wilkens' art gallery and swooned over local art from Tobermory's watercolour and oil paint masters._

_I walk along the rest of the paved walkway. The Blue Heron docks in the Tobermory Harbour ahead. Tourists stumble down from the steps dangling digital cameras from their wrists._

I slow down along the sidewalk near the dock tracing my fingertips over the end of the black railing. I hear waves lapping against the creaking dock. The Blue Heron's motor thrashes water underneath its metal body. The engine roars and the ship trembles. The cabin casts a shadow over me and I disappear under its shade. Inside the cabin, ushers in black suits and servicemen in white aprons dart in and out of entrances carrying trays, serviettes, and freshly pressed towels.

Outside the ship, tourists sprint from the long wooden ticket booth on my left to file up between two heavy blue velvet ropes on my right. The velvet ropes mark an area reserved for Blue Heron ticket-holders only. The red digital letters next to the customer service window blink _Blue Heron Sunset Cruise—sold out._

The bystanders next to me huddle around the port and click their cameras, sending flashes of light against the Blue Heron's navy blue boards. On the dock, children climb over resin anchors and slide down their smooth arches. Elderly couples gather on benches and share tired smiles. The setting sun casts their long slender silhouettes on the concrete sidewalk.

As I walk along the dock, I pass benches overflowing with strangers. A small boy rests his head on his mother's lap next to an elderly woman who snores in her seat. Beside them, a young couple exchange glances and lean in for a kiss. The collection of waves lapping, cameras clicking, and tender voices lingers behind me. Smooth jazz music muffles the sounds as I approach some outdoor speakers.

On my left, I near the patio of a restaurant, the Sunken Ship. Lawn chairs scrape against the concrete floor and thick beer glasses clank into each other over the floppy plastic tables. I pass by faces reflecting the golden colours of the sunset and platters covered with fresh fish tacos and fries. Laughter booms and yellow flames rise high from the outdoor grill burning charred smoke that spirals upward into the sky. A waft of the steakhouse air trickles over my lips and I taste the sizzling white bass basting on the grill.

As the air clears, I near a long empty bench where a man hunches over his hands. A navy blue raincoat is draped over his bony shoulders. A sweat-stained muscle shirt peeks through his worn-out cloak and grey corduroy pants hang loose from his legs. The tongue of his dark, tattered boots sprawls away from his dirty grey socks.

The man tucks a strand of peppered hair behind his ear. His cheeks burn crimson like aged leather. His earlobes hang loose from his face. His shoulders rise and truncate his neck. His eyes crinkle and his lips part. The man grunts.

He clutches a black leather-bound journal to his chest and coughs into his fist. Adults pull their children close as they pass. The man presses tears away from his eyes.

The harbourfront man tips his journal open just enough to slide the tip of his pen inside without disrupting the spine. I watch as he slices three straight dark inky lines across an unfinished sentence. He lifts the pen, steadies his hand down the next line, and reunites the ink and the paper.

A horn wails steadily in the distance. The Blue Heron, now the size of a toy boat, builds waves along the Tobermory harbour, nudging idle boats aside. The ship's starboard side faces the setting sun and I find myself squinting as the vast ship's navy blue boards shrink smaller and smaller into the horizon.

I glance over my shoulder. The harbourfront man swipes his finger over his tongue, plunges his finger toward the top corner of the page, and then crinkles the paper aside. He cradles the black leather journal on his left knee, nods subtly, then adjusts his position on the bench. The man eases the pen back to the paper and stains the crisp white page with fresh ink. I smile.

As I walk past the man's hunched figure I hope to glimpse a sentence, a word, a title. Any hint that would reveal more of his story. My smile softens.

The curve of his letters.

The style of his cursive.

The thickness of the pen's ink.

The journal's pages flap against the wind from the written side, flashing lines of words to the people passing by.

Birds chirp above us and flee to rest in their nests. As I approach the parking lot, car doors shut, wheels turn and engines rev away.

I focus on the image of the man; the furrows between his eyebrows, the wrinkles in his pensive lips, the kinks in his withered clothes, the threads in his tattered boots, the cracks in his hands and the lines in his journal. As I fish for the keys in my bag, sliding aside worn-out brochures, images, and souvenirs, I imagine what his life has been like. I imagine crewmen, visiting ships, and sights around the Flowerpot Islands that have yet to be discovered. I wonder whether the harbourfront man is a local or a visitor. A writer or a thinker. A hero, or not.

I trace my sight back toward the crowds of people as they watch the tip of the Blue Heron fade into the shoreline.

Fighting Noise

Jodelle Faye DeJesus

Plates shatter against the concrete floor.

Metal pots clash against stone counters.

I press against the door between the untouched "showroom kitchen" of our townhouse apartment—a dry sink, empty cupboards, and spotless tile counters—and the extension that houses our "dirty kitchen" and dining area with the drying rack piled with dishes, a bowl of browning bananas atop a wooden six-seater dinner table, cans and jars littered across stone counters, and the looming shadows of my parents.

I twist and peek through the screen of the door into the kitchen. Pots and Corelle plates zip from one end to the other.

Dade bellows. Fighting words I can't remember.

Mame screeches back. Curse words typically banned in our home.

More pots, pans, plates, and plastic containers zoom across the kitchen.

I turn on my heel and sprint up the staircase. My two older brothers and older sister perk their heads when I enter the bedroom. They stare wide-eyed and with lips pursed, expectant of news from the battlefield.

I shrug. "They're still fighting. Mame's throwing stuff at him."

Diko, my second older brother, kneels on the floor. "We found a hole here. It looks like termites ate through it." He bends and presses an ear to the hardwood. "We can listen in on them like this."

"I thought I was your spy," I say, pouting.

Ate, our second eldest and my sister, sits on the bed with legs crossed. "It's not a big deal. You're still our spy, but this way we can all hear them without having to go downstairs. It's too risky."

Kuya, our eldest, stretches on the upper deck of our bunk bed. He scowls. "Hoy!" he hisses down at us. "Can you guys stop that? Let them fight."

"JODEL! JADE! JAP! JAYEE!"

We cringe. Kuya bolts upright. Ate straightens her legs. Diko stands. My heart thumps against my ears. I tense at the door.

Did they hear me? Did they catch me spying on their fight? Did I get us all in trouble? Will we get spanked? I clench my buttcheeks. I wonder if I can put a pillow inside my white cotton shorts. I can fake pain. I can hide Dade's belts.

"JODEL! JADE! JAYEE! JAP!" Dade's voice jabs the air. "GET YOUR MOTHER!"

Kuya jumps down from the upper deck, Ate and Diko rush to the door, and I step aside so they can go ahead of me. I jog down the stairs after Ate and Diko with Kuya at my tail. We funnel into the kitchen through the screen door.

Mame lies on the floor. Her mango-print frock splayed out on the tiles. Her eyes shut, arms limp on either side of her body.

"There. She fainted. Bring her upstairs." Dade towers over us next to the stone sink counter and the gas stove. His hands swing awkwardly by his hips.

Us four bend and pick a limb to grip. My clammy hands grab her right shoulder and arm. Ate takes Mame's left arm. Diko lifts the right leg. Kuya supports Mame's left foot and thigh.

"Okay," Kuya murmurs. "One... two... three."

We heave. Mame's bottom touches the floor. Her limbs raise ten inches off the ground. Six-, eight-, ten-, and twelve-year-old kids carry a 34-year-old woman from the unpaved stone kitchen floor. We pick up her arms and legs and drag her torso toward the screen door.

Four pairs of beady eyes exchange glares. I cup Mame's head and lift. She groans and shifts in her position. Ate reaches for the screen door and pulls it. She pushes her butt against the door to keep it open, and we shuffle through.

"Let's just bring her to the living room couch," Diko says. "Their bed is too far."

We shuffle centimetre by centimetre, crouched collectively around Mame's 5'3", 140-pound frame.

My spine aches.

The head of wiry black pixie-cut hair passes the threshold. Then the pale shoulders, followed by her subtly rising and falling chest.

I stifle a groan.

Mame's eyelids flutter. Maybe I imagined it. The creases on the folds of her eyelids deepen. I blink.

Her waist passes through the door.

She groans. Her eyes flit open. Her lips part. "Put me down," she says.

We lay her down.

Mame pulls up her knees, supports herself with palms on the glossy red marble, and stands. She points a shaky finger at Dade. "You called the children to take me away?! What is the matter with you?!"

"Because I knew you were faking! You were just being dramatic for the sake of it! Did you think I was going to pick you up?!" he booms.

"Well, good thing I know you won't pick me up if I fall!"

Kuya, Ate, Diko, and I sprint up the staircase. Diko and I press our ears to the broken floorboards.

Dade stomps around while whistling. Mame screams at him while slamming cabinets open and closed. She gives up and instead sings ABBA's "Dancing Queen" very loudly and very out of tune.

*

Saturday. I'm 22. It's seven in the morning. Layers of Canada's harsh winter snow covers roofs and trees and grass and paved outdoor floors. The whiteness pours into my curtained bedroom. My comforter feels extra warm and soft.

A low voice thunders.

A shrill voice bounces back.

I bury my face into a pillow.

Thunderous footfalls. Dade stomps around when he's angry.

Cabinets bang open and close.

They slam everything when they fight. But not plates. Plates cost too much to throw.

Dade whistles.

Mame blasts "Dancing Queen" from the DVD player.

I roll on my side, reach for the laptop next to my bed, and hit the Windows Media Player icon. My room fills with the younger, angrier Eminem's retching. Puke splashes sound from my laptop speakers.

Eminem mumbles, "There I go... thinkin' 'bout you again."

I pull the comforter over my head and bury my face in my overalls-wearing stuffed rabbit, Benny Bunny.

*

I sit on the 20 Rathburn bus on my way home from work at Richmond Hill. The air is too humid, the sun shines too brightly, the text of my book dances out of focus, and my ears buzz.

In front of me, a hip-hop song rumbles over the groan of the engine. I glare at the bun of wavy brown hair and the pink earbuds jutting out from the passenger's ears.

Maybe I can tap her shoulder and ask her to lower the volume.

I glare at the screen of my Asus Transformer. I hate people who blast music on public transportation. I hate when TV volumes reach 50. I hate the clinking of spoons and forks and knives against ceramic plates. I hate troll-like footsteps. I hate "Dancing Queen". I hate whistling. I hate the fragments of broken plates on the floor.

I hate, hate, hate noise.

**Snow through the window**

Alain Latour

Shortly after dawn on a January Monday, I stood at the living room window, a forgotten cup of coffee in my hand, watching the snow whirl in the early morning haze.

Then I heard something—a rustle behind me. Glancing up, I caught my wife's reflection on the windowpane. She walked toward me across the living room, draped in my navy bathrobe, her hair wet from the shower. I set the mug down on the window sill and I slid my arm around her waist and I pulled her close. We both watched the snow fall, not saying anything.

Finally I said, "Is he still asleep?"

"Yes. But not for long."

I smiled a sad smile. "Every day he wakes up at the same time." I paused. "But not today."

"We could wake him up. He's waking up soon anyway."

I shook my head. "Thanks, baby."

She hesitated. She caressed my hand. You should leave, I told myself. You should leave now or you'll be late.

"Did you have breakfast?" she asked.

"I'm not hungry." I paused. "You had a rough night."

"He was very hungry."

"I wish I could help."

"I enjoy breastfeeding him."

I nodded. Suddenly aware of the ticking that came from the clock on the fireplace mantel, I turned to face her and I ran my free hand through her dark wet hair. "I'd better go."

She touched my cheek. "I wish you didn't have to."

"So do I." I smiled again. "Think he'll miss me?"

She squeezed my hand again. "Of course he will."

"He's two weeks old."

"It doesn't matter," she said. She added, "You can still go in. Even if you really don't want to wake him up, you can still go in. Quietly. You can watch him for a bit." She smiled. "He's the world's cutest baby."

Yes, he is, I thought, and I thought back to every morning since he was born a week ago, and how we'd gape at him asleep in his crib, this tiny person who'd graced our lives, and how we'd marvel at the small slow movements he'd make with this hands and we'd chuckle at his frown, wondering just what in the world he could possibly frown about.

"He is," I said. "He's a handsome little guy. But it's best if I don't go in."

She held me tighter and buried her face in my chest. "I'll miss you."

I nodded. I opened my mouth. I cleared my throat. I started over. "I'll miss you too. Both of you."

"I hope it won't be a long day," she said. "It's all right if it is, but I hope you'll be home early."

"I'll try," I said and I smiled a crooked smile, the one I hoped she had yet to figure out for the disguise it really was. Then she leaned in and I did the same and we kissed.

"You sure you don't want to see him?" she said when the kiss was over.

"It's easier if I don't."

She nodded. "I understand."

I nodded back and after one last squeeze of her hand I turned and walked slowly out of the living room, trying very hard to ignore the baby swing next to the couch and the picture on the fireplace mantel, the one we'd had taken in the hospital the day after he was born.

Once in the hall, I took my coat and my scarf from the rack and I put them on. I turned around and found she'd followed me, as I'd known she would, and her hair was still wet and dark and she was still beautiful draped in my navy bathrobe, the morning light streaming in from the window behind her.

"I'll call you," I said.

"You'd better." We both smiled, but it wasn't as fun a smile as it had always been. Then I spun around and unlocked the door and stepped out and paced down the hallway and pounded down two flights of creaky old stairs and out the door of the building into the snow. I trudged south toward the bus stop, where a short line of dark figures waited, shoulders hunched against the cold, and as I reached them I heard the bus turn around the curve behind me and roll into a stop at the beginning of the line.

To hell with it, I decided. I'm going back. I'm quitting, never going back into that office again. I'm heading back upstairs and I'm kissing my wife and we're waking up our son and we're having breakfast and then I'm sitting down and I'm working on my novel and I'll support us all through my writing.

But then I climbed onto the bus. I fumbled my way past the passengers until I found a spot in the back and then the bus pulled away from the curb and started down the road, away from our crumbling apartment building. It was shortly after dawn on a January Monday, and I stood at the window, watching the snow whirl in the early morning haze.

**Belinda's Tragic Genes**

Melissa Carter

My sister Julia and I have been calling my Mom a hypochondriac since we were old enough to know that a word existed to describe someone who always assumed that everyone was dying. But every story she tells makes her pessimism seem a little more rational.

My Aunt Belinda was an exaggerated version of my mother: a little shorter, a little fatter, cheeks a little rosier, with a laugh that was a little more contagious. She and my mother were best friends, and they talked about ten times a day on the phone.

In 2009, Belinda went to the hospital for the first time in twenty years outside of her prescheduled physical, because she didn't feel well. My mom had convinced her that it was better to be safe than sorry, saying the half-hour trip into town was worth it.

The hospital in Peterborough hid in the back of a pharmacy and housed a nurse practitioner rather than a doctor. The nurse told her she had a cold and gave her some pills.

"I'm not going to say I'm sorry," Mom laughed into the phone when Belinda called that night demanding gas money for her wasted trip.

Two days later, Belinda still didn't feel any better, and Mom convinced her to go back to the clinic. The nurse listened to her chest and sent her straight to the hospital, another hour's drive away, where they stuck a needle in her back to drain her lungs and ran another round of tests.

When Mom answered the phone that night and suddenly gasped, I muted the TV and leaned against the counter watching her face. Her eyebrows scrunched together and she leaned on her knees, hunching over and looking at the floor.

"What do you mean? What did they say?" Mom said quietly into the phone. "Okay, okay, I'll talk to you tonight." Mom put the phone down and I looked over her shoulder as she typed "ovarian cancer" into Google.

That night when Belinda called back, Mom sat by the phone with her iPad waiting. "It can't be ovarian cancer. I looked it up and you don't have any of the symptoms. It's something else."

The next day the doctor called Belinda back and told her that they had made a mistake. It wasn't ovarian cancer, it was lung cancer. "Well, Jesus Christ," Belinda scoffed. "My goddamn sister told me that. Even she knew before you did."

Belinda called and told Mom that she was right, so Mom started looking up lung cancer. She already knew a lot about it since Grandma died, but now that she had the Internet, she wanted to know more.

Later that night, when Belinda called again, Mom sighed into the phone. "What the hell do you mean they called back? What the fuck is wrong with these people? Come out here and come to our hospital."

Mom talked for an hour or so longer and hung up the phone. "What's wrong now?" I sighed.

"The doctor called again, and they made a mistake again. It's not lung cancer, it's alpha 1."

"What the hell is that?" I asked.

"I have no idea" Mom sighed, flipping open her iPad.

When I woke up the next morning Mom was still up, and she was an Alpha 1 expert. Alpha 1 is a pair of genes that all people have. But, if one of your genes is deficient and your numbers fall low, your body begins to attack itself in areas like the liver and lungs. Although Alpha 1 can be treated with a lung or liver transplant, it's ultimately incurable.

The next day when Belinda went back to the doctor they scheduled her for a liver biopsy. By that time, Belinda's birthday weekend had arrived. Mom made the three-hour drive to Peterborough to visit her. She arrived at the house while Belinda and Don were at the hospital getting the biopsy, and let herself in using the spare key.

When Mom saw Belinda and Don pull into the driveway, Don practically carried Belinda from the car. Belinda went to bed straight away and slept for the rest of the day. Mom says that liver biopsies aren't supposed to hurt, but by the end of the weekend she still hadn't been able to convince Belinda to go back to the hospital.

By the next Friday, Belinda couldn't stand the pain anymore. She went back to the hospital and they did some more tests. When she called, excited to tell Mom that they had given her a private room, Mom wasn't excited. Belinda's liver was so damaged that it had shrunken down to a third of the size it should have been. Since the doctor hadn't used an ultrasound machine when doing the biopsy, he hadn't known that the liver wasn't where it should have been, and he punctured her stomach.

The next day Mom packed up and drove to the hospital, four hours from home. Mom says that when she got there Belinda's cheeks weren't rosy, and she wasn't plump anymore. Her eyes sunk in and extra skin dangled off her arms.

While Belinda slept the doctor came in and Mom finally got to ask all the questions that she had wanted Belinda to ask for so long. She asked how they had gotten the diagnosis wrong so many times. She asked why the nurse had sent her home so many times. She asked why they hadn't used an ultrasound machine when doing the biopsy. Mom asked all the questions she wanted, but still only one answer remained. They could do nothing more for Belinda.

While the rest of the family lived far away, thinking that Belinda was only having a few health hiccups, Mom was the first one to know that she was dying. Even Don hadn't realized how serious things had become. He walked into the waiting room smiling and carrying a bouquet of flowers. "How's my girl?" he asked, looking down the hall towards Belinda's room.

"It's not good, Don." Mom shook her head. "This is it."

"What do you mean, this is it?" Don asked, his forehead crinkling and the corners of his mouth turning down.

"There's nothing more they can do." Mom pushed the flowers out of the way and leaned up to hug Don, patting his back and wiping her eyes on his shirt.

Mom called Belinda's children and told them that they should come to the hospital. When they said that they would come on the weekend when the work week had finished, Mom said that she didn't think they should wait that long. Her children, grandchildren, sisters, and brothers all came to visit. Two days later, on April 23rd, 2009, she died in her sleep.

Once everything had settled, Mom called everyone in the family and told them to get tested for alpha 1. Mom says you're supposed to have a number between 1.8 and 2.6, and anything lower meant that you could get the disease. Everyone got checked, and only a few people had a low number. Mom kept a little black book under her bed with everyone's information and numbers inside. No one had a number as low as Belinda's 0.02.

Every year on her birthday Mom says that Belinda was telling her all about growing old, and now, without her, Mom doesn't know what's coming or how to deal with things. Every spring when she's planting her garden Mom says she can't believe Belinda will never plant another cucumber seed. Every Christmas Mom says she can't believe Belinda will never see another winter.

Mom says that when she got Grandpa tested for the disease he had a higher number than anyone else. He had two perfectly healthy genes. Mom wrote his number in her book, put it back under her bed, and never took it out again.

Mom says that alpha 1 is hereditary, and parents pass their genes on to their children. Mom also says that Grandpa's number means there is no way Belinda could be his daughter. But Mom only says that to me.

**91 Days**

Christy Moffat

It's July 1st and 38 degrees Celsius with the humidex. The blue sky beyond the round bus windows is crowded with fat cumulous clouds, the air pregnant with the promise of summer rain. This is the fifth day of Brampton's "heat wave". It is also the second week since I moved into my sparse one room apartment with new paint on the walls, new wax on the scratched floor, but no air conditioner in the window. As a new grad with a diploma, debt up the wazoo and desperate for a job, air conditioning didn't quite fit it my budget yet.

My earbuds blast Basement Jaxx's "Everybody" and sweat drips down my spine. I lift my arms up, vying for some air conditioning—no one likes a stinky interviewee.

I take a deep breath and go through my list of responses to classic interview questions: What is your worst attribute? Are you a team player? Do you like working in groups? What experience do you hope to gain? What was your least-favourite subject in university?

After attending over a dozen interviews in the past three months, many of them in Toronto and Mississauga, I feel well-prepped to face another potential employer. Though I don't have a job yet, I tell myself I'm only three months out of school. My mind lays out the simple but terrifying math: 91 days unemployed, $910 a month for rent, $450 for a decent air conditioner, and only $2,500 left in savings.

My heart sinks into my acid-filled stomach. Deep breaths. Not desperate. Not yet.

I stand, push the request stop button, unglue my thighs, and walk to the door. The bus stops in front of a dreary plaza filled with one-level shops and stores with dirty windows, dusty displays, and no shade. I check my phone: 1:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes until my interview at Kwanzo Industries for a junior copywriter position. I drag my frosty Klean Kanteen out of my satchel, chug a large mouthful, and duck into a convenience store two doors down from Kwanzo.

I browse the gum and magazines and steal as much cold air as possible. I think cold thoughts: the snowy landscape of the Arctic, a large Sapporo choked with ice cubes, the thought of being unemployed for another 91 days.

Time drags like the broken leg of a shambling zombie. The convenience store attendant glares at me. I check my phone: five minutes to go. I check my scent: strawberry body butter holding nicely. I check my confidence: not quite as strong as the body butter.

A brisk pace carries my black flats into the first floor of Kwanzo Industries. A delicious, cold gust of air hits my sticky face and chest. A young woman with bangs, thick glasses, and jeans one size too small greets me.

"Hiya, how can I help you?" the woman asks from behind the desk. Her face looks young—unlined with freckles, but her slouched shoulders and tight jeans scream middle-aged.

"Hello. I am here to see Mr. Flange. I have an interview at 2 p.m." My eyes flick over the Bud Light clock on the wall above the reception desk.

The young woman's eyes narrow and travel down my body. She takes in my skirt, pink sleeveless blouse, and Oxblood satchel. My blazer is draped over my bag, which holds my résumé and reference letters from my favourite teacher and from my previous employer at U of T. The woman shoots a pointed glance at my blouse.

I look down, following the path of her gaze. Shit, did I spill something on myself? Do I have large disgusting sweat stains? Nothing. My blouse looks perfect. I look up and meet the woman's eyes.

"I'll go let Mr. Flange know you're here." The woman turns on her Converse and trudges up the stairs to the second floor.

Faint sounds float down the stairs: the clickety-click of fingers typing, muffled and indistinct bites of conversations, pleasant dings that I recognize as Mac computer sounds.

The dusty Budweiser clock reads 2:08. Another sigh slips past my lips and I look around the first floor, walking slowly so that I can run back at the slightest sound of footsteps on the stairs. The room resembles an '80s bachelor pad. There is a couch, a large circular table, a dead arcade game in the far corner, and a whiteboard with BRAINSTORM written in large letters inside a puffy cloud.

My eyebrows raise. I wonder how long someone has been BRAINSTORMING. Since 1986? A smile tugs at the corner of my lip. The words on the whiteboard are from a black whiteboard marker, and they look dry and chipped. The only thing that's gonna clear this brainstorm is a bottle of rubbing alcohol and an SOS pad.

Footfalls echo from the stairs behind me. I envision a grizzly bear trudging down them, with a coffee mug in hand and a "Where's the Beef" t-shirt. I remember the strange glance the woman shot at my blouse. I drop my satchel, whip up my black blazer, and button it over my blouse. I scoop up my satchel and jog over to the staircase.

I straighten up. My mouth stretches into a professional smile and I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt.

A man with fuzzy grey hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and a scowl trudges down the last few steps.

I nod to him as his worn-looking New Balance come to rest two feet from mine. "Hello, I'm Christy Moffat. I am here for my 2 p.m. interview." My eyes want to stray over to the dusty Bud Light clock. The big hand points in the vicinity of the blue 3. Mr. Flange is 15 minutes late.

"Hi." The gruff-looking man, who I assume is Mr. Flange, nods to me and walks past me into the '80s bachelor pad, taking a seat at the round table. He carries a slim folder in his thick red hands.

My freshly plucked eyebrows raise. I take a deep breath and follow him.

"Have a seat, Miss Moffat," the man says and points at a chair beside him, without looking up.

Principal's office, that's what this feels like. I sit down, place my satchel on the table, and turn towards my interviewer. Knees together, hands on my lap, smile cemented on my face.

The man opens the folder and pulls out a copy of my résumé and a ballpoint pen. There are notes scratched in the margins, beside my work experience, skills, and references. My eyes stray to the sharp and pointed cursive. Question marks and scratched-out words and sentences dot the page, like shit on white sheets. What's he been writing about me?

"So you want to be a copywriter?" the man asks, finally looking up at my face. "I know from our email correspondence that you are looking for full-time paid work in the publishing industry."

I pause. This man is Mr. Flange, or at least a person who hacked into his computer and took time to chat with me regarding my career goals. "Yes, my degree is in both professional writing and communications, so I think I would be able to use those skills in any career," I say, with as much confidence as I can muster.

"Huh?" Mr. Flange's eyebrows almost kiss his receding hairline. My teeth dig into my inner cheek. Shit, wrong answer.

"You know we don't publish books here, right?" Mr. Flange asks.

"Yes, of course. I am excited about becoming more diverse in my writing skills and I think copywriting at your company would be an excellent opportunity to do that." My lips purse. Fuck, I said too much.

Mr. Flange places my inked résumé back into the folder and stands. I look dumbly up at him with what must be a "someone kicked my puppy and ate my ice cream" face.

Mr. Flange lumbers over to the staircase. "Come meet the team," he hollers over his shoulder. His grizzled white hair is a crazy halo around his head.

"Ah, sure." I hurry to gather my bag and catch up to him.

Mr. Flange is halfway up the stairs by the time I reach his side. The second floor opens up into a large loft space with four-foot windows, exposed beams, and a dozen desks. White Mac desktops, coffee mugs, pens, brightly coloured brochures, and half-finished lunches dot these workstations.

A woman at the nearest desk—the frowning woman who greeted me downstairs—doesn't look up as Mr. Flange and I approach. Her fingers blur as they fly across her white Mac keyboard. She chews gum and doesn't blink.

Mr. Flange walks through the open space. None of them look up from their screens. White noise fills the silence—furious typing and the hum of printers, scanners, and a small fridge in the corner.

As I follow Mr. Flange, I can feel eyes on my back. The suspicion creates an itch between my shoulders. In my imagination, the worker drones turn into flesh-hungry zombies and lunge for my tender peaches-and-cream skin. The desire to turn and confront these confabulated zombies is almost too much. As I plan my attack on the mindless legion, a large oval desk comes into view at the back of the room. A man is already seated at the desk, waiting for us. He has spiked hair, a slick smile, and dark eyes that stare at the front of my blazer and lower before lazily meeting my eyes.

My teeth dig into my inner cheek. I stifle a growl. I understand now why the young woman shot me the death glare earlier.

"So do you know what we do here, Miss Moffat?" Mr. Flange sits across from the other man, offering me a seat between them. Interview sandwich.

"Yes. Kwanzo Industries is a marketing firm that specializes in the sale of veterinary medical instruments," I say in a strong voice. I looked up Kwanzo Industries' LinkedIn profile before the interview.

"Uh huh. That's correct. I know that you are very familiar with the veterinary profession," Mr. Flange says and tips his eyes up to meet mine, above the gold frames of his glasses.

My stomach churns. True, I was a veterinary technician for almost six years, but I didn't mentioned it on my résumé—didn't really fit with my career goals, plus I didn't want them to know how old I was.

Ageism and all that. How does Kwanzo know about it?

I nod. "Yes, that's true," I say, smile a few watts dimmer.

"You also write quite a bit. On your résumé you mentioned that you wrote a book? Ah," Mr. Flange fishes out my resume again. "Bakemono." He pronounces the Japanese word for "monster" in two separate English words, "bake" and "mono"—like a pastry-induced glandular fever.

I smile. "Yes." I pull a copy out from my satchel and lay it on the table. "It is a collection of short stories about monsters."

Mr. Flange looks down at the pink cover of the book. The eyebrows go up and the glasses dip down as he picks up the book. A picture of a girl in a wolf mask lunges toward the reader.

I go on. "I created the entire book—the cover, layout, stories, and typesetting—using the Adobe Creative Suite."

Mr. Flange flips over the book and reads the back cover. "Eat someone?" Mr. Flange murmurs. A blush rises in my pale cheeks. Mr. Flange's lips move as he reads about a girl who eats people.

"Do you think you can write for consumers, as opposed to fiction?" This question comes from the man beside me—the pervert.

I turn towards him. "Absolutely. My degree has prepared me for diverse forms of communication." I smile, but it is colder now.

The man nods, smiles, and shrugs. "Sounds great, doesn't it, Willy?" he says, looking over at Mr. Flange.

Mr. Flange looks up. "It does, Kurt." He turns to me. "One thing, though. We are a close-knit group and we don't take well to cursing, issues with authority, or attitudes."

My jaw almost drops. Good thing my body is too tense to let it. For once, I am actually speechless. With my stellar references, graduation with high distinction, and mentoring first-years for my university, I don't deserve this.

Kurt laughs. "We read some of your portfolio online—my favourite was the one where you dropped the F-bomb in front of that veterinarian you used to work for."

Fuck. My blood turns to ice. My website, my creative non-fiction, my LinkedIn. Kwanzo's stalked it all.

"That was a story for one of my professional writing courses," I say. Kurt and Willy share a look.

"Well, about the attitude: we had a look at your LinkedIn profile pic and you kind of look like a pissed member of the KGB," Kurt says offhandedly. Willy slides Bakemono back to me.

My LinkedIn picture is a self-portrait from a photography assignment. A black and white photo of me in my winter coat with the collar up and my sunglasses on. No hammers and sickles, machine guns, or vodka.

I let out a strained laugh. A hoarse bray of shock and humour at this ridiculous interrogation. "A friend of mine took it for a photography class."

Another shared look. The hum of machines, the click of typing fingers, and the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

"You are a talented writer, Christy." Mr. Flange turns to face me, eyes locked on mine. Kurt shifts in his seat. "But we are looking for someone who can meet deadlines, write our content, and fit in."

I take in a deep breath. I think about the chilled skinny vanilla latte that I am going to treat myself to on the way home for this failed interview. Cold, sweet, and bold.

"The junior copywriter position is unpaid for the first three months." Mr. Flange folds his paws, one on top of the other, and leans back in his chair. "We need to be sure that you are a good fit—not a round peg in a square hole, so to speak—then we can discuss starting salary."

I nod. Another 91 days. At least. The sounds of barking dogs, hissing cats, and pissed-off clients from my part-time job at the emergency vet clinic fill my mind. Pays the bills, not for thrills or to fulfill.

"You said that you have a few more interviews this week," Mr. Flange starts.

"Yes. I have one tomorrow and one on Friday," I say, being honest.

Mr. Flange pulls a business card from his pocket, turns it over, and writes a date and time on it. A week from today, at 9 a.m.

Mr. Flange puts a finger on the card and slides it over to me. Kurt stands, walks over to his desk, and sits down, eyes on his screen. Back to the zombie hoard to type, chew, and stare.

Nice to meet you too, Kurt, buddy!

I try to pick up the card but Mr. Flange's finger keeps it rooted to the table. Our eyes meet and I can't help but think of the tractor beam from Star Trek.

"This is only if you are serious, Christy. Time in marketing is commission, clients, and cred." Mr. Flange's eyes harden and I realize for the first time how old he is—he's probably eligible for the senior citizen discount at Shoppers Drug Mart.

"Of course." After a second's hesitation Mr. Flange takes his thick finger off of the matte rectangle. I scoop up the business card and stand. "Thank you, Mr. Flange." I offer my hand.

Mr. Flange stands and shakes my hand firmly. His dry palm scrapes against my sweaty one.

"Maybe we'll see you next week," Mr. Flange says, voice flat.

I nod and smile. I turn to the rest of the room. Silence. The fingers on the keyboard have stopped.

Twelve pairs of eyes look up at me. My skin tries to crawl off my skeleton.

I turn on my heel, shove the business card in my satchel, and powerwalk down the stairs and out of Kwanzo Industries. Outside is an oven set to 450 degrees. I suck in hot happy lungfuls.

**Support**

Rasheed Clarke

"I'm going to need the surgery," I said in a soft voice. I looked down at the pale green carpet, then back to my dad and Uncle Homi. Their mouths opened slightly but nothing came out. I looked out the living room window at the streetlights. Orange orbs glowed against the dark night sky.

I sniffed to break the silence. "This Remicade stuff isn't working, so there's really not much else to do."

My dad reacted as he usually would when faced with bad news—his faced drooped, he closed his eyes, pressed his hands together as though he was praying, and held them against his thin lips. The same sad expression I saw when he and I spoke to Dr. Steinhart about the possibility of surgery to treat my ulcerative colitis. The same sad expression I saw when I told him I wanted to take a job in Halifax and move there alone. The same sad expression I saw when I told him Jodelle and I were more than "just friends". The same sad expression I saw when I told him the Zoroastrian religion didn't shape me as it did him.

Uncle Homi reacted as he usually would when faced with bad news—he propped up his chin with both of his palms, cast his eyes to the floor, and made a "tsk tsk tsk" sound with his tongue.

"Well, if that's what has to be done," said my dad, his eyes still closed.

Another "tsk tsk tsk" emanated from Uncle Homi; his brown eyes were wide and still fixed on the pale green carpet.

"It's been coming for a while now. I mean, nothing's really worked properly over the last couple of years," I muttered. "Maybe this way I can just get it done and move on." I turned away from my dad and Uncle Homi, towards the stairs. I took two steps and started crying.

"Damn it," I shouted. My eyes welled as I collapsed to my knees and pounded my fist into the pale green carpet. "I tried! I tried!"

*

In 2008, at the age of 24, I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, an inflammatory bowel disease that triggers my immune system to attack my colon. Those attacks cause bloody diarrhea, rectal bleeding, cramps, and underwear-soiling urgency. In the four years since my diagnosis I've been on a host of drugs with fancy pharmaceutical company-created names like Asacol, Imuran, and Remicade. In between each of those drugs, I've needed multiple rounds of prednisone, a not so fancily named steroid. I've tried naturopathic remedies and homeopathic medicine. I've also tried diet changes, eliminating at one point or another, and in no specific order, spicy foods, dairy products, red meat, eggs, gluten, wheat, nuts, dried fruits, alcohol, caffeine, and carbonated beverages. Pills haven't worked. Suppositories haven't worked. Intravenous drugs haven't worked. Herbs and magic water haven't worked. Pleasure-free diets haven't worked. I just shit and bleed and shit and cramp and bleed and shit and shit some more.

So, on to surgery. Surgery to remove my colon. Surgery that I tried and tried to avoid.

*

When I set the operation date with my surgeon, Dr. Cohen, it was time to share the news. I told my closest friends and family members in person, and sent out an email to colleagues and family members that I don't see often, but who have expressed an interest in my well-being at some point or another. Here's what I wrote:

_Subject: Incoming Lengthy Email!_

Hello BCCed friends, family, and email buddies.

I hope you had a fun Easter weekend and that you found pet bunnies or chocolate eggs or resurrected fellas, or whatever it is that people find over the Easter weekend.

In the last episode of Rasheed's Ulcerative Colitis, we found our protagonist sitting comfortably in a blue padded chair at an injection clinic in Etobicoke, with a Remicade IV slowly dripping into his left wrist. That prefabricated liquid was supposed to alleviate his UC symptoms. For two months, he was able to run and work and eat like a seemingly normal person. But the positive effects of Remicade faded, and another booster infusion has proven to be of little help. Yet another UC treatment has failed. Now, the dramatic conclusion of Rasheed's Ulcerative Colitis.

Yes, a conclusion is near, albeit a messy one. A conclusion that will "cure" me, rid me of the wretched, diseased colon that has stalled so much of my growth personally and professionally. There's no simple solution at this point. I need that five-foot long, fire-breathing dragon slashed out of me. I've been seriously considering it for over a year now, and despite my attempts at treatment, both traditional and alternative, nothing has tamed the beast.

The decision to have my colon removed was not taken lightly. I have racked up hours of conversation with doctors and other colitis sufferers. I have spend days reading academic, medical, and anecdotal articles on the subject. I'm doing what I can to prepare myself physically and psychologically for what's to come. Just what is to come, you ask? Good question.

On May 9th I will undergo the first of two operations at Mount Sinai Hospital here in Toronto. This one is to remove my colon and (most likely) my rectum. The end of my small intestine will be rerouted to an opening that will be created in my abdomen. That opening, or stoma, will drain into a bag that I will wear. The hope is that bag will be temporary.

Roughly three months later, I will undergo the second operation. This one is to create and hook up a pelvic pouch, or "J-pouch". The pouch is in fact the end of my small intestine sewn back onto itself to form a J-shape and connected to my anus. That pelvic pouch will act as my substitute colon. It's an unconventional plumbing system, but one that can work surprisingly well. The hope is that with the pouch I'll have to defecate about 6 times a day, which may sound like a lot, but compared to 30 times a day sounds like fucking paradise. When you think about it, it's really quite amazing that medical knowledge has advanced to a level where people can live without their colons. It's the result of bold human beings who have cast aside superstition and pseudoscience.

My description of the procedures are admittedly rudimentary, so if you're looking for more details on the operations, visit the Mount Sinai hospital page.

So that's the story as it stands today. Yeah. It won't be pretty, but hell, neither am I.

There's a story that Spanish Conquistador Hernán Cortés burned his ships soon after arriving in the New World as a way of illustrating his no-turning-back commitment to his future. It's a disputed story, though, as many historians believe he scuttled his ships to prevent a mutiny. The first story sounds cooler, and it's that story I like to keep in mind.

Burn the boats.

Rasheed

That email elicited a varied response. In general, the email responses could be grouped into three categories: eye-rollers, confidence-boosters, and smile-inducers.

Let's start with a smile-inducer. I worked for several years as a traffic reporter alongside a friendly man named Glen. We both loved football and Simpsons quotes, and our voices sounded similar on air, which sometimes caused confusion for listeners and radio station staff. Glen sometimes called me "Bumba" after a DJ I worked with gave me the nickname "Bumba-Clarke". Here's Glen's reply:

_Subject: Bumba!_

And no I'm not using the word 'bum' in Bumba to be funny. Although now that I think about it.....

So you know I'm squirming in my seat reading your missive and thinking about it—and I'm not the one who has to go through the procedure(s). Obviously I hope it goes well (I was going to say 'comes out alright in the end' but again, this is not funny) and the operation accomplishes the goal.

I've honestly never heard of this way of creating a new colon (semicolon?) but I do know my brother had his transverse colon taken out because of cancer, they hooked him back up and everything is (mostly) working well and has for almost a decade now. There are some things he's not supposed to eat or drink which he does anyway and that causes some problems, but I think you might be a bit more disciplined than he is since you've had more practice.

Best wishes for the operation and the recovery and maybe I'll stop in to see you and bring you some flowers or one of those stuffed animals with a 'some bunny loves you' t-shirt. Or hey, maybe Arsenal will make the champions league. Stranger things have happened.

Glen

Glen's email made me feel happy, not just because of the jokes, but because he treated me as the same person I've always been, not some sickly sad sack on the verge of two trips to the operating room. My intestinal deterioration was no reason for him not to make fun of my ass or my beloved football club. To him, I was the same wisecracking, football-crazed person he got to know over the years; the same person I'll be on the other side of the surgeries.

Now here's an eye-roller, from an aunt who found Jesus (was he missing?) several years ago.

_Subject: Re: Incoming Lengthy Email!_

Hi Rasheed,

I wasn't going to respond to your e-mail below, but I really wanted to comment on your "resurrected fellas" statement.

While you so callously referred to our Lord and Savior, Jesus, as a "resurrected fella," isn't it amazing that He still loves you? There isn't one thing we humans have done to deserve His grace, love and forgiveness, and yet He lavishes us with these precious gifts because He is Grace. Isn't it amazing that the God of the universe chooses to love His creation—mean, selfish, judgemental humans (that's basically, all of us)—so much? Amazing Love! The Bible states that one day "every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord." I love that old hymn, "Amazing Love, how can it be, that Thou my God, shouldst die for me." I thank Him for His sacrifice on the Cross and His resurrection, and because He lives, we who believe in Him will live also.

I don't have answers to life's problems, i.e. why some people fall sick and never regain their health this side of Heaven, or that there are thousands of people who don't have food, clothing or shelter in many parts of this sin-sick world, or that there are thousands who are out of work and fear the future. I know that the enemy (satan) of God's children wants to destroy humans, literally destroy, through sickness and poverty. Also, what I do know is that without Christ in our lives we are nothing. I do know that I am to worship Him now and forever, and I do. After His resurrection, I love what Jesus said to one of his disciples, Thomas, who was always doubtful (but after touching Jesus' nail-pierced hands and feet called the Savior My Lord and God), "Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed."

As I have written to you in the past, we all have our crosses to bear, and I know that I have had many. I also know that I need my Lord and Savior, Jesus, every hour of every day of my life, and I thank and praise Him for always being with me and my loved ones as He has promised. I know how agonizing life has been, but I also know that He is very real to me and I want to spend all my days glorifying Him, here and throughout eternity.

Anyway, despite your silly, insensitive remark below, I know He will be with you if you earnestly seek Him. I pray you will, and wouldn't it be great if you were to see His miraculous healing hand in your life?

Julia

It was a joke.

Relax.

Here's a similar yet different eye-roller, from another aunt.

_Subject: Re: Incoming Lengthy Email!_

Dear Rasheed,

I went through your letter with a lot of apprehension.

Your are too young to go for this operation. Have you tried praying our mathras? Do you perform your "kusti" regularly? Try praying the Vanant Yast Nirang. It is very small. Then leave your health in His hands. It gives one a lot of peace. You may not understand the meaning of what you pray, but the vibrations of the words have its healing values.

I will pray for you also,

God be with you,

Yours Franak Aunty.

The kusti, by the way, is a string that Zoroastrians are supposed to wear around their waists. I stopped wearing mine about a year ago, around the same time I didn't see the light and "converted" to atheism, which is something I had thought about doing for many years before.

These two emails from my well-intentioned aunts just left me wondering how people can so wholeheartedly commit to dogma that miserably fails every test of logic, and is perpetuated without a single scrap of evidence.

So let me get this straight...

God is, all at once, himself, his son, and a ghost.

Makes sense.

Tying a string around my waist will rid me of an autoimmune disease.

Makes sense.

I'm not upset with God for giving me this disease. How can I be? He didn't give me anything because he doesn't exist. I am, however, upset with people who can't take a joke, and people who think I should spurn the advice of trained and experienced medical professionals in favour of baseless mysticism.

But enough about that. On to the confidence-boosters. This one came from Trevor, a friend and former colleague who works as a transit supervisor for the City of Moncton. He always puts "Moncton NB" in the subject line of his emails, regardless of their content. Perhaps his way of reminding me of my time spent in the Maritimes.

_Subject: Moncton NB_

Hi Rasheed, well I see that things have not gotten better. I am glad you are taking steps to finally put an end to your suffering. Yes it will not be pleasant, but there are things in life that are much worse. I know this sounds stupid for what you have to go through but at least you are upbeat. I am home, got your new e-mail address so I will change it at work on Monday. I was away for 2 weeks vacation and back to the grind Monday. I will send you another e-mail next week. You keep your head hi bro, there will be an end to this soon. I will be in touch, Trev

Heh. "Bro." Awesome. This simple note was laced with perspective and realism. Yes, what I'm about to go through will be awful, but there are people in this world who live with harder circumstances every day. Yes, Trevor, I will do my best to keep my head up and grind through the misery.

Here's another good one, which was the first reply I received.

Subject: Surgery

Good luck and I'll pop by on the 10th and see how you're doing.

Take care.

Alistair

Such an Alistair reply. No nonsense, straight to the point well-wishing. Like Glen's email, what I took most from this one is that I'm being treated just as I always have. Alistair's email also reminded me that while this surgery isn't a minor job, it's something that I'll just have to endure. Difficult, yet simple. Alistair works at Mount Sinai Hospital, so he can "pop by" the day after my operation. I'll be looking forward to that.

Okay, last one. The biggest confidence-booster I received, from yet another aunt.

_Subject: from Meher_

Hi Rasheed,

Perviz sent me your e-mail about the upcoming surgeries and yes, it is sad and terrible that you have to go through this. I would never ever want anyone to have this terrible—as you say—beast of an illness BUT and this is a big BUT I have seen my niece regain control of her life after getting a colostomy bag. In retrospect, if she had to have this illness, the removal of her rectum and part of her colon and getting the colostomy bag was the best thing that came out of this whole messy situation. Yes, there were a few accidents but once she got the hang of it, she could socialize instead of making endless trips to the loo, she got married and had a child.

You have researched this thoroughly, you've been open to other treatments and now you know you have made an informed decision. So my dear slay the beast and go on to live a fulfilling life. I don't believe in God, so I can't say I will pray for you, but I will think of you all day on the 9th and send positive wishes and good thoughts your way. If you feel like a rest and change of scene after you recover, you know you are always welcome to come and spend time with us in Bryn Mawr. I have a bedroom with its own bathroom waiting for you.

Love and all my good wishes for a successful recovery,

Meher

Fuckin' beauty, eh? What hit me most was reading, "I don't believe in God, so I can't say I will pray for you." Until this email, I assumed my aunt Meher was a God-believer like everyone else in my family. Knowing that she, like me, didn't believe in God was a source of great comfort. A little camaraderie. A feeling that I wasn't alone in my choice to not keep the faith. Knowing that someone wasn't praying for me, and had the guts to say so, was incredibly comforting. Maybe you have to be an atheist to understand that.

An encouraging story, encouraging words, no messages delivered to the ether, and an offer of free accommodations with exceptional toilet proximity. Positivity without wizardry, sympathy without pity. I couldn't ask for anything more. Thank you, aunt Meher.

*

When I sent out my email, I wasn't looking for anything in particular from the folks whose emails were listed in the BCC field. I was merely trying to keep them informed. I didn't want to arrive at a relative's house at some point in the future and have to explain in depth why I'd only like a small meal (not eating much at a relative's house is akin to insulting the culinary skills of the host, don'tcha know). I'm grateful for all the replies, the ones that were noted above and the ones that weren't, no matter what category they fell under. Above all else, they show that I'm cared for. Dare I say, even loved. And that's a confidence boost in itself. It lets me know that I haven't been a completely useless human being up to this point.

I know that I have quite an extensive support system, and it's quite amazing how I can communicate with them en masse. It's certainly less tiring than dozens of phone calls and house calls, especially when my UC still has me shitting blood and water at inopportune times—not that there's ever a good time to shit blood and water.

Here's to hoping less shitty days are ahead.

Burn the boats.

**Wrong Wrong Wrong**

Sufian Malik

In junior year, I was the fat kid. And I mean fat; I had two shawarmas for lunch and one for dinner. Occasionally, I'd slip another in between those two holy moments. Can you call cake a snack? I did.

I had only one friend, who I resented because he had a big head. Our friendship was based on our physical mediocrity. The year went by. I figured playing sports could help me meet new friends and work off some shawarma fat. I was fifteen and pimple-faced. A stylist/personal PR guru would not have helped. Playing sports was the answer.

At school, I stealth-walked around the grey halls gathering intelligence. I picked up pieces of a bunch of conversations. I found kids who played that old imperialist sport called cricket. Barring golf—no way was I playing that—cricket seemed like the least taxing sport to play. I willed myself to give cricket a go.

Saturday was a sunny, blue, perfect, gorgeous, warm day. No bad omens. Mom was at work. I stepped out of our apartment and walked to school with a bat. The grass bordering the sidewalk funneled me to the greatest social opportunity I ever had. I arrived at the concrete slab where they played, and looked into the social viper pit. Nobody noticed when I made my entrance because nobody knew who I was. I ended up being picked last. They assigned me to the outfield. I was grateful for being picked at all.

Cricket is a team sport, but really it's just about who throws the ball fastest and who hits it back hardest. Fielding is the only team part; fielding is boring. I watched the kids face off and realized the nightmare I'd walked into. The grass and sun and sky had lied. There was no way I was going to make friends with these people. They could play and I had a feeling I could not. I felt weird standing around. I was terrified of a ball coming my way. What if I dropped it? What if it hit my face and knocked off my glasses? Nobody would ever want to be friends with me.

The pitchers threw the ball fast. I expected I would shit my pants when it was my turn to bat. But I couldn't bail on my team. Camaraderie and wanting to make friends. I prepared myself for a graceful exit.

It was my turn to hit.

I faced this funny-throwing kid. He flipped the ball out so it bounced and changed direction. He threw slower and I thought I could knock him out of the park. I watched a couple of balls. I blocked them and checked my adrenaline. At the fifth ball, I went for the big swing. I missed, jumped back, and didn't feel too bad.

The next pitch came.

I swung so hard I heard a pop. The sky flipped over. I fell and crashed into pain. I received a loud alarm from my right leg and realized I had scraped my elbow. My entire plan totally flopped. I felt my right knee swell up.

A guy reluctantly walked over to me.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Okay. Need help?"

"Nah, I'm okay."

He walked away. I kept up the tough guy veil until I tried standing. I doubled over/toppled over/fell. Mr. Reluctance walked back over and helped me up. I brushed a patch of shit and gravel off my side. My leg hurt when I put weight on it. Something bad bad bad had happened.

I leaned on my bat for a few minutes. My athletic guy ruse fell, revealing the fat guy inside.

I limped home with my bat. The grass did not funnel me to joy. I stopped along the way, checking my knee. The kneecap floated under skin, the knee softball-sized. Injury was not good for me. I puked when I scraped my arm. I cried for two weeks when I broke my arm. What could happen now?

I realized I had no keys when I reached home. The security guy buzzed me in. The lobby mirrors shot back images of my failure. I took the elevator to the ninth and knocked. Nobody answered. Mom was still at work. I slumped to the floor and reflected on the year so far. The peachy corridor with pot lights was a far cry from the dingy sewer I was really in. My knee grew bigger. Patellae should not feel as loose as mine did.

A couple of hours later, Mom showed up. Her reaction was the opposite of capital-E Empathy. It was more along the lines of capital-D Disappointment. Seeing me sit there, puffy and sad, she realized something had gone wrong wrong wrong.

"What happened?"

"I fell."

"Are you okay?"

"No. Can you take me to the hospital?"

"Fine."

We got to the hospital and I got a ticket, like the ones at the butcher so you know when your turn is, and I rested my leg on a bench.

An hour later, a bunch of medical types saw me. They poked and pushed my swelly bits and I made ouch noises. They sent me to a room after poking for a scan of some sort. I tried to feel tough and not cry but I probably looked more constipated.

I noted the marked indifference of the hospital staff. Today was not an important event for them, just another sporting injury. After the scans, a doctor poked and touched my knee again.

"You sprained your ACL."

"What is an ACL?"

"It's one of the ligaments that hold your knee together. It's not a tear, so you'll be okay."

He posted the scan on a lit-up part of the wall. I didn't like seeing my insides jumbled up.

"You'll need a cast."

"Is this going to hurt?"

"A little. You'll need physiotherapy."

I reconfigured my making friends plan after hearing the doc talk. Physio and a cast would be cool. I could get sympathy points out of people at school. They would know I existed. Two medical types pushed me into another blue room. They lathered hot gluey sheets on my entire leg. I did not know the cast would reach my groin.

"You have to wait here until the cast dries a little."

"Sounds great!"

Mom went and bought some crutches. Extra sympathy points. Half an hour later, I left feeling much better and safer. I couldn't see my wobbly knee anymore.

I stayed home for the next three days. I was a cast-ridden baby. I stayed in my ten-by-twelve paradise full of cookies and coke, playing _Dragon Quest VIII_. I never got to the dragon at the end but I managed to hit things with a sword. My only friend called each evening with homework updates. I brushed him off, thinking of all the new people I'd meet. I ate too many shawarmas and too many cakes over three nights.

Nobody cared when I got to school on Thursday. The math teacher asked me why I hadn't done all the homework and everyone moved away from me because I smelled like shit because I hadn't showered in four days.

I was more than disappointed and less than enthusiastic. Again, my making friends plan failed. I went unnoticed. I thought about _Dragon Quest_ and how much better a shitty videogame was than this. I sulked around all my classes gathering all the work I'd missed. Math stopped making sense and I had no idea what the Cuban missile crisis was. Saddest of all, I'd missed a tape showing of _Pride and Prejudice_. I cursed sports and ate my lunch in the schoolyard. I did not feel surprised when nobody approached me. I sat with my bigheaded friend. The fit kids still ran around, the dorks still swapped CDs, and I still sat on a bench. My little tragedy meant nothing.

Getting home that day was horrible. I usually snuck onto the bus unnoticed, safe. With the cast and crutches, I drew attention. I sat at the back, put my leg up, and pretended to be dead until home came.

That evening I waded through school stuff I did not understand. The emotional malaise of having a balloon for a knee didn't encourage me to figure out trigonometry. I gave up on memorizing Cold War dates and didn't dare understand Hamlet's pain. I had my own version of to be or not to be. I sat at the table looking at my cast and thinking about how kids in the movies had better casts. They had signatures and tokens of affection. Mine had nothing. I took an early leave to bed.

I struggled out of bed the next morning with enduring leg pain. I did not enjoy my usually beloved bowl of Nesquick. The bus was horrible again. I considered wearing earplugs full-time but decided against it, given my already severe fashion problems. Math confused me more this morning. I had missed a piece of the puzzle earlier in the week.

I jeopardized my decent grades for a shot at friendship.

I felt dejected and foolish at lunch. I sat at my usual bench eating a fat tuna sandwich, my one source of joy. As I bit into the sandwich I saw my number-one feared guy of all.

He was the worst kind of bully. His command of racial slurs was impeccable, his glare sublime, and his social network formidable. I felt anticipatory panic from enduring regular verbal abuse. I tried hiding behind my sandwich but my head was much bigger than two slices of Wonder Bread. He walked over with the kind of ease an unaware piece of shit possesses. This scared me more, but I had also been through the worst five days in recent memory. I felt the thing tough guys maybe feel: an adrenaline-fueled desire to fight rather than to run and eat an entire cake. I put my sandwich down safely in the solid Ziploc box.

He came within shouting distance and said something like, "Hey, what's happening, Paki!"

And I did something I never did before and I thought it was a great idea at the time and I forgot for a moment that I was a lefty liberal and targeted him racially because he had targeted me and I said, "You eat any poo today, you poo-skinned idiot?"

The next thing I knew, a lot of things hurt but my leg was okay and I realized I had crutches. I smacked him in the knee (subconsciously maybe wanting to inflict on him the pain I experienced). It didn't hurt him, of course, and he looked at me in the way people look at confused children.

I think he might have felt concern for me. "Yo, what's wrong with you, man? You want to get hurt?" he said.

I did hurt and I finally understood where I really fit in the class struggles of high school. At that moment I was angry but I also accepted who I basically was. I said yes, I want to get hurt and he shook his head and walked away.

Over the next five months I skipped all my rehab appointments but stretched my knee back into some semblance of shape. I went into my senior year okay with Bighead.

**Put some Ice on it**

Carine Abouseif

BANG.

A fist slams into the open bathroom door. The door smacks the wall behind it and bounces back. The hinges squeal. The edge of the door collides with the door-frame. A crack crashes through the room.

I drop to the bathroom floor. I fist my knuckle into my stomach.

I extract my hand from the folds of my stomach. I flex my fingers.

Green, blue and purple bruises flower over the back of my hand. The skin of my knuckles dents inwards. My hand shakes.

*

"Asshole!"

A door slams.

I press my face into my pillow. A spot below my right eyebrow throbs. _Boom. Boom. Boom._

"Asshole!"

A light snaps on. It burns through my eyelids. _Boom. Boom. Boom._

I press my face harder into the pillow. I slip my hand into the crevice between the bed and the wall. I feel around for my cell phone. I peel my face off the pillow. I pry my eyes open. I tap at my cell phone. It flashes 3:08 AM. I fall back into the pillow.

The lock on the bathroom door crunches open.

"Asshole!" the voice yellows louder.

I peel my face off the pillow again. Stephanie stands in the bathroom that joins our two single rooms. Wet black, eyeliner creases around her eyes. Mascara crumbles down her cheeks. A pinprick of a nose ring sparkles from her wide nose. Large silver hoops hang from her ears and frame her chubby, peach-coloured cheeks. Her long, black hair waterfalls past her shoulders. Six rings circle her fingers. Her blue-manicured hands sit on her waist. She frowns.

"This is all your fault," she points her finger at me. She turns and marches back into her room. Her hair whips behind her. A roll of toilet paper topples off the edge of the sink and unfurls across the hair-dye stained rubbery floor. I squint through the bathroom door into her room. A tall figure in bulky boots stands near the door.

I pat the bedcovers around my pillow. I palm glasses onto my face. They ride up on one side. A palm-print fogs the left lens. I stumble off my bed and shuffle into the dark bathroom that joins the room dorm rooms.

Boo nods at me from the door. He steps on the back of his boots. He aligns them on the fluorescent pink welcome mat by the door. A poster of a couple kissing by a black and white Eiffel tower hides a crack in the egg-yolk yellow walls. A sequined beret, a leopard print scarf and a fake fur vest hang from the corner of the bedpost.

"Wha happened?" I mumble. I squint at Stephanie.

"Your stupid ex-boyfriend happened," she yells. She plops into her black swivel chair. The red, heart-shaped pillow on chair peeks out from behind her oversized sweater. Boo leans on the heavy, oak door.

I move into the bathroom door-frame.

Stephanie sighs. She twists a cross ring on her pinky.

"Like an hour ago, I get this call, telling me I got a free pizza," she says.

Boo snorts. "Who would buy that?"

"So I went downstairs to see if it was true," Stephanie says. "And guess who was downstairs sitting on the lobby couch?" She looks at me.

I lean one hand on the bathroom door-frame. I grasp painted, grey wood.

Boo pushes himself off the front door and walks across the carpet. He leans an elbow on the wall beside the bathroom door frame.

"So it was a prank," I say.

Obviously." Boo snorts.

Stephanie drops her head and looks at her lap. A sheet of hair masks her face.

"He said something really mean," she mumbles.

"What did he say?" Boo asks. He pushes off his elbow and circles around the open bathroom door.

Stephanie looks up again. She focuses on me.

"He called me..."

She pulls the ring off her pinky and drops it in her legging-strapped lap.

"He called me flat-face."

Boo stops pacing. He wraps one fist in the other. His eyes shuttle between Stephanie and me.

"This is all your fault," Stephanie wails. She prods an index finger with a large, blue stoned ring at me. The sheet of hair slides onto her back as she waves her arms.

"If you hadn't brought him into our lives he wouldn't be bullying me." She pushes herself off her chair. The chair swings to face the bed in the corner. She paces towards me.

"If you hadn't dated him then—"

BANG.

Boo's fist slams into the open bathroom door. The door smacks the wall behind it and bounces back. The hinges squeal. The edge of the door collides with the door-frame. A crack crashes through the room.

I drop to the bathroom floor. I fist my knuckle into my stomach.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry." Boo drops to the floor in front of me. "Are you okay?"

I extract my hand from the folds of my stomach. I flex my fingers.

Green, blue and purple bruises flower over the back of my hand. The skin of my knuckles dents inwards. My hand shakes.

"You really need to control your anger," Stephanie turns to face the large window in her room. Silhouettes of tall trees swagger in the February wind. Snowflakes peck at the window and gather on the sill.

"Maybe we should take you to the emergency room?" Boo says. He frowns at my hand. My ring finger twitches.

I shake my head. I stuff my fist back into my stomach.

"Okay, you need ice," he says. "Where are we going to get ice?"

"You're not even listening to me." Stephanie turns to face us. She exhales and rolls her eyes.

Boo looks up at her. "Where are we going to get ice?" he asks again.

"Outside, obviously." Stephanie waves at the window behind her.

Boo jumps off the ground and pulls on his boots. He presses down on the door handle to the front door. "I'll be back," he says. He pulls the door open, swings around it and dashes down the hallway. The door clicks closed. I close my eyes.

"This is all your fault, you know," Stephanie says.

**Derek**

Catherine Lopes

I swerve, bump, and shove tardy walkers as a curtain of rain slows morning commuters. I stumble through the revolving office doors, drenched and glance at my Timex: Five minutes to get to the 13th floor. I dash toward the elevator. My Gucci heels resonate through the 50 foot marble foyer.

A man in a Tom Ford Wetherby black silk suit stands by the elevator. He scrolls through his Blackberry, glances up from an email, and stares at my chest.

"Idiot paper pusher," I mutter. I whip my soaked hair and watch water droplets shatter his stare.

I punch the up arrow button with my middle finger. My foot taps the marble tiled floor. I glance at the large, spiral stone staircase. The elevator pauses on the 21st floor. I bolt up the flights of stairs. 200 calories burnt later, I reach the 13th floor and slink down the narrow mahogany paneled hallway. I heave the oak door open, scurry through a maze of cubicles, find my five-by-five cubicle and collapse in my seat.

I lean my head back and cool drops of water slide off my tousled hair and drip onto my white chiffon blouse. I gaze down to smooth my black skirt and notice a watermark on my blouse.

Damp chiffon exposes the new sheer black lace bra my friend gave me as a gag gift. My cheeks flushed as girls shrieked and squealed as I lifted up the lingerie at my 25th birthday party.

"Some man's going to have a fun time squeezing those", yelled one of the girls. I waved the comment away and quickly shoved the bra back into the pink gift bag. Last night I had forgotten to dry my usual white full coverage sports bras and had no other option but to pull the fire alarm and wear the lacy brassiere. I gaze down and watch the delicate silk threads clutch my cleavage and black rosettes circle my nipples.

My head drops as I drift back to the memory of the paper pusher's eyes fastened to my chest. To think, I wore this bra to feel spunky.

I slip on a grey tattered sweater I left at work in case Derek blasted the air-conditioning. I glance over the spread of clutter: applications slide over plastic holders, multicolor Post-It's litter the cubicle wall, and a carrot muffin rests on a pink note. I snatch the note, curl over and read.

"Hey Nicole, since you were late, I grabbed a carrot muffin for you before everyone raided the Tim Hortons box. There should also be some coffee left in the kitchen by the time you arrive." Signed Derek in neat, elongated strokes.

Derek, twenty-eight years old, graduated from Harvard with a business law degree. He flew to Toronto from New York and got the first job he applied for. Every deal he supervised came through. When I shuffled into his office for the interview I commented on an image of Dublin plastered on his desktop.

The Brazen Head Pub, the oldest pub in Dublin, sat in the centre of the screen. Our interview ran long as 99% included the various draughts Brazen Head served. He also spoke of books he read by James Joyce and his secret love for European literature. My cell rang an hour after our interview. In an Irish accent, he said I had the job.

I turn on my computer and log into our business chat. The pointless conversation made the day speed by.

I scan for Derek's name among the online contacts. I type: "Thanks for saving me a muff..."

BossManDerek flashes orange in a text box at the bottom of the screen, "Hey Nicky. Do you want to go out for dinner on Monday?"

My hands fly up to muffle the yelp and heaving breathes. Dinner with my boss? Promotion? Date? I think about my boyfriend who flew off to Punta Cana with his buddies. He hasn't called me since.

"Are you sure we should be going out?" I say.

BossManDerek replies, "Yah why not? I've been meaning to take you out. You've been working so hard lately."

"Hmm, alright! I can't wait! Where shall we go?" I hit enter and wait.

"I know you like Italian, so let's go to Nota Bene on Queen Street?"

My nose crinkles. How did he know I like Italian food? I tap my lips and think of what to write. "That sounds lovely, Derek." My lips quiver into a smile and I wonder what to wear.

"Also... Nicky... can you wear that sexy bra you're wearing today for Monday and strap on a lacy thong, too? I really like those!"

My pulse quickens. My face flushes, and pink blotches pattern my chest.

Derek's married. Cute, but taken.

I type, "alright" and click send.

BossManDerek replies, "This is going to be such a sexy night for us! I'll message you in an hour. I have a conference call. See you in a bit!"

BossManDerek signs off.

I giggle and write Derek on a bunch of pink Post-Its. Work piles on top of my desk and I spin in the swivel chair. When I leave the office I turn to Derek's closed door and blow invisible kisses.

For the rest of the weekend, my thoughts linger on Derek; his light brown hair rippled with bands of creamy blonde and his toned arms and his ethereal green eyes. I hop on the subway, head to Eaton Centre and dart towards BCBG MaxAzria. After five fittings I purchase a strapless, pleated, teal dress with a sweetheart neckline. I slide my credit card into the terminal and click OK to a week's worth of groceries. I stride past my old stores. They wave to me with their button-up shirts and high rise pants as I graduate into a new class of women. I strut into Victoria Secret and eye a sale on thongs. I buy two black lace trimmed thongs with pink, satin stitched hearts.

On Monday morning I arrive to the office on time. I hope for some innocent office flirtation, maybe a kiss behind the water cooler.

I turn the corner and furrow my brows. The office is void of people. My cubicle's haphazard array of papers, Post-Its and pens vanished. Not even a telephone perches in its usual corner. An empty space in a cluttered office.

I hasten to Derek's office and hope for some sort of explanation. I throw the door open and lock eyes with a skinny Latina woman in a navy blue Armani suit. Her eyes drill into me. She leans next to a box of my belongings: picture frames, a stapler and the fountain pen Derek gave me for Christmas.

She hands me a piece of paper. It's a letter of resignation.

A shiny flicker catches my eye. On her left hand rests the platinum 5-carat round cut Tiffany & Co. diamond ring. I remember that ring: I helped Derek pick it for his proposal to Nikita, his wife.

She clears her throat and subtracts me from my D+N equation.

"On Friday, Derek came home and asked if I had made reservations for Friday. When I told him he never spoke to me about it he realized your mistake. He thought he was talking to me, not you. He clicked the wrong Nicky and you flirted with him instead."

I freeze and scan the room for a bucket of water and her broomstick.

"A letter of resignation is appropriate for this situation and..."

I straiten my back and take a step towards Nikita. I glide my fingers over Derek's mahogany desk. "...and your afraid Derek's going to bang me against this..." My thoughts cut in.

"...and the company will avoid public humiliation from Derek's glorified maid". Nikita thrusts the box into my arms and my posture deflates.

"Leave now or I will call security and have you escorted off the premises." She points her spiny finger to doors leading out of the office to a life of unemployment and instant noodles.

I shuffle out the office doors with my box.

My head feels faint and my eyes full of tears. The hallway stretches. My ears hear only the strike of my Gucci heels: clack, clack, clack.

**Double-walker**

Luke Sawczak

I slouch up the shallow stairs in the Student Centre on my way to the office. She's probably still upset with me, so I word my text carefully. "I don't suppose I could hang out with you tonight?" Apostrophe, capital I, and question mark—I'm such a dork. But as I drop my backpack on the couch and shrug off my trenchcoat, I hear the opening five seconds of Liszt's Transcendental Étude no. 10 and I check the new text: "Yes!" She even put an exclamation mark. Nice. We're both dorks.

When I'm done my work I pick up my pack, push clumsily out the door, and cut through the construction-paper-black night to her rez. I recognize it from when I came by to give her a teddy bear and three CDs of Dvořák's symphonic poems. It's like a little house, with a living room on the ground floor where she says she sits in the armchair and pulls the cushions up around her so that it feels like a hug. I don't have to knock for the door to open, spilling light like water and revealing her. She stands with a grin and a mug of tea for me, glasses around her wide eyes and hair tied back. She looks unsettlingly like my cousin.

We find the darkest corner of the living room, lay cushions on the carpet, and open up her MacBook to watch _The Fall_. The screen faintly illuminates us in polychrome. I glimpse at her; she's holding the teddy bear close to her chest. I feel timid, but when she feels for my fingers it's clear she's not upset after all.

On the screen Beethoven's seventh plays over a picture of a train crossing a bridge in the daylight. I can never get my head around watching day scenes at night. Soon a man in a hospital asks an adorable little Spanish girl if she wants to hear a story. From time to time I glance at the girl holding my hand.

Before long she shifts over to lean on me. Oops, bad timing—the tea has run through my system—I have to get up. I stutter and apologize. "Aw," she sighs as I step into the kitchen light and gradually materialize from my socks up to my face. "You interrupted the best part. It always makes me cry."

I pause, hoping I have a clever reply. I don't. I continue upstairs.

After I tiptoe back to my spot, we start the scene over. Actually, the scene _is_ moving. I forget where I am for a minute, until she turns to face me in the glow, removes her glasses, and whispers, "It still got me."

I face her, and I realize I don't and probably never will know what to say to a girl with water coming out of her eye sockets. "Aw," I say. Eventually she faces the screen again.

Just when I begin to doubt that tonight was a good idea, the movie ends. She closes the laptop and pushes it away with her foot before lying face up on the cushion beside me. In my head, the question of whether ours really is a romantic relationship keeps returning, only for the answer-finding algorithm to fail again and again. I stretch out a hand and gently play with her hair. She smiles.

"I want—so much—to kiss you," I say, "but I won't," I finish stupidly.

She hums two notes, then frowns. "Why do you want to?"

We are friends of silence, introverts both. We understand the time it takes to find answers—and if you _do_ find you have an instant answer, dismiss it as bullshit. I retreat into self-dialogue. It's not that I'm taking it too seriously, I think. I'm not saying it's morally wrong to be with her like this. It's just that it seems like it should be a major thing for an eighteen-year-old girl to say, "I know who I'll marry." And no, it's not me. But if two people are lonely...?

I let my lungs collapse slowly, imagine the situation from her perspective. I try to justify having kissed me last Tuesday, up on the roof. Having said, "Je t'aime." I can't. What the hell, Luke, I accuse myself. This is just a good thing. Why do you have to make everything so complicated? This isn't what adults do.

Besides, complicated is usually wrong. I know she'd tell this story differently from start to finish.

My answer to her question slips free from my lips in three words.

I put the same lips to her forehead. She pulls me down close and does the same.

My phone loudly vibrates against the table.

I hesitate a second. "Walk with me to be picked up?" I say, hoping to buy another minute with her. But no, I tell myself. I promised myself I wouldn't love her anymore, not tonight, not ever. She doesn't really love me. I'm only here. I'm only convenient while she waits for him.

I rise, I tie my shoelaces, I shoulder my backpack. She opens the door for me. Before my eyes, her black hair melds into the night once the house is behind us. Her dark skin is mute. I am walking beside the invisible, save the gold buttons hovering on a black trenchcoat like pieces of daylight. Our feet slow in sync as we near the usual place.

I stop and face her. Her lips turn in mischief. If I'm going to kiss her, this is the moment. But I know I won't. I'm not thinking about half an hour from now when she'll text me, "I guess neither of us gets what we want. Sleep sweet, Luke Anthony." I'm not thinking about two months from now when I'll get one final email informing me that I didn't really care for her, that I _never_ care for anyone but myself, and that it no longer matters to her what I do. I'm not thinking about two days from now when I will push my decision to the point of telling her we shouldn't even be friends. I'm not thinking about her on that day—sinking to her knees, hands falling limply from the piano keys. I'm not thinking about her jaw falling, her bare eyes welling over, while I stand and stare and fail, as I always fail, to know what to say.

No, I'm not thinking at all.

"You can go home now," I say.

Her smile disappears. "...I can go _home_ now?"

I nod. "Goodnight."

Her chin falls in a soft arc to the base of her neck. She inhales and exhales deeply. "Goodnight."

She turns and walks away.

Behind me, my dad's car pulls up. I climb into the passenger's seat. I feel strange. I don't feel good, I just feel my conscience shifting around. As we drive by, I see her head is still bowed, and she recedes into the black.

**Orange and Red and Jarvis Street**

Chiamaka Ugwu

The cars flashed by in orange and red as we dashed down Jarvis Street.

It was the three of us: my sister Chinonye, my mother, and me. My sister was almost two and I was newly four.

We ran after my brother Josh.

"Oya! Let's go."

*

Mom was stronger and braver than she had ever been. It took eight years and moving to Toronto for her to leave my father Isaac.

The night before, Mom took my brother, sister, and me to a new place—a nice apartment that looked like a hotel, with a swampy green awning with cracks of egg yolk sun shining through. I followed the awning with my eyes, tilting back until everything flipped upside down.

Mom rushed us into the building. Her eyes darted around like a hunting hawk. She pressed the buzzer numbers and opened the door quickly and carefully, like a spy. I barely had time to take in this new place: the chocolate carpets, caramel walls, and gold lights like candy bar wrappers. What was this brand new city with flashing cars, egg yolk suns, and candy buildings?

We stepped into the glossy steel elevator, my mother still checking the surroundings. She had transformed into Secret Agent Mother Courage.

Operation: Escape.

Mission: Bring rookie agents Joshua, Chiamaka, and Chinonye to headquarters.

Destination: Chocolate Laboratories, a random street, Toronto.

We shot up four floors and entered a new hallway. Secret Agent M.C. pushed us though the hall at a light jog. We stopped at room 419. Mom took out the key, pushed it through the keyhole, turned the knob, and opened the door. Access granted.

Mom saw how tired we were and put us all to bed. There was only one queen-sized bed in the room, already set with silky blankets of gold and caramel and cream. We dove in like Dunkaroos and fell asleep.

I woke up to loud thumps on the door. I looked up and saw Mom bracing herself against the door with all her strength.

He had found us. He had found the secret headquarters.

Isaac pounded against the door harder and harder. Before I could get up, he burst through the locked door. Mom flew to the other side of the room and hit the wall.

My father sprinted to her, pulled her away from the wall, and punched her in the mouth. Mom cowered over in tears and screams.

Josh and I sprung from the bed, ready to use our training to protect our top agent.

Isaac heard us move. He spun around and looked directly at Josh. I had always been invisible to him. Isaac grabbed Josh's arm. Josh cried for Mom. My father tore him away.

My father tore him away from us and ran with him out the broken door, down the apartment stairs, out the door onto Jarvis Street, into this new city called Toronto where cars flashed and buildings were made of candy and my mother was brave.

Mom did not know what to do. She knew no one in this country except her children and a monster. My sister still slept. Mom woke her up, helped us put on our coats, and grabbed our hands tight.

Mom was in agent mode again, and we, her rookies, were about to complete our last mission. We ran out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, and outside onto Jarvis Street. We saw Josh and Isaac. I screamed for my brother. He screamed for my mother. My dad slapped him and ran even faster, Josh flying in the air behind him like a stubborn kite.

We continued running. I don't remember when we stopped. I don't remember how we got Josh back and my dad got arrested and my parents got divorced and I never saw him again.

I remember my mother fighting. I remember us running down Jarvis Street. I remember the sun in my eyes, the flashes of orange and red, my brother screaming in orange and red, cars flashing in orange and red, determination and fear in orange and red.

I remember our family fighting for goodbyes and new beginnings, for hope in new cities, for wishes in hotel apartments, for dreams in caramel blankets. I remember fighting and hoping and wishing and dreaming in orange and red.

**Acknowledgements**

Wow, it happened again.

A bunch of talented, wonderful, hardworking people came together to follow me into madness, and produced what I think is a pretty nifty anthology.

I went into a kind of paralytic shock while trying to produce this volume. As a result, I did next to no work while the editorial team carried this project. Jodelle Faye DeJesus—our managing editor—sacrificed the little time she has between two jobs to recruit writers, edit pieces, and otherwise run the show when I was too busy looking at clouds. Without her help, I don't know if we'd have released Record Two on time, if at all.

Luke Sawczak copyedited this entire thing—giving it the elegant polish you don't notice, because no one ever notices good copyediting, which is a shame. To fill you in: Luke's ability to clarify sentences and pluck out errant punctuation are superb. I feel like a better person after he edits a story.

Kasia Luczynski forgave me for misspelling her name half a dozen times, and also provided the high-level story and style editing that I've come to rely on. If the reader enjoyed my own story about Beijing, it's because of her.

There are other people I need to thank, and other people that I'm looking forward to thanking in the future. But that'd take forever, so I'll just thank you, dear reader. On behalf of everyone working on this project, thank you for giving these little stories from little people a chance. And hey, if you liked what you saw, stay tuned for more. We'll be releasing a Record Three around the end of September. And with these fantastic people at the helm, I know it'll be awesome.
