Spanish Nouns and English Heartache
Jessica was seated at her desk, hunched over the crisp white page full…
Compassionate Eyes
He had the drooping eyes of a hard worker. The type of eyes that weren’t sad, but certainly weren’t happy. They were accomplished, satisfied and ready for a good night’s sleep, but most of all, filled with kindness for anyone who cared to look.
Highway, A Parable
A couple, man and woman, walked along the highway in the early hours of a new day.
They walked hand in hand, awed by the glaring absence of traffic or any car to speak of.
Friends And More
21 y.o., 5 ft 9, 130 pounds, Asian. I am looking to meet some new friends (any race/age) and more. Not into games, one-night stands, or jerks.
Birds of a Feather
Jason was not a simple man. Nor was he complicated in any way. Jason was a man who woke up at precisely 6:45 am every day. He swung his legs and landed his feet in the slippers that were placed a foot away from the bed every night at exactly 10:30 pm. At 6:50 am Jason enters his kitchen of white linoleum that shines under the single fluorescent light.
Joyce And Other Soft Spots
It’s 2:47 a.m. when I push through the doors, trying not to squint from the fluorescent rays trickling above. Dry air smashes into my eyes and they fill with fluid. I rub my hands together and exhale on them for warmth. Tonight, the woman at the desk smiles, teases and laughs with me. She’s not funny, but I play along.
Precious Moments
Miss Hilda Grimbley entered her commode at 9 o’clock on a serene Saturday morning in the early part of the twenty-first century and sat down on her toilet as if it really were, as the colloquialism goes, a throne.
They Say
They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away.
Sarah’s family values her health and well-being. Every day, her mother sends her to school with a fresh Macintosh.
Johnny comes from a well-off family. Every day, he is sent to school with two apples. He places the Granny Smith on the teacher’s desk.
A Conversation With Pablo Neruda
SARAH: If you were ever curious about the lines on my face, I would send you to a palm reader. See, my lines match your lines: my lines are leftovers from when the lines of your hand cupped my face. I don’t have crow’s feet, I have blinded-by-the-light squint lines. I don’t have furrows on my brow – they are where-the-hell-have-you-been? contours. I do not have a half-face of wrinkles, I have a demi-facial scar. Left by you. The last thing I remember. We were broke artists, never starving. Hungry and poor. Happy.
The Whore’s Breakfast
She was enjoying the whore’s breakfast: coffee and cigarettes. She had considered stealing a piece of bread from her roommate, but she wasn’t even that hungry. She was at peace just sitting there on the balcony, smoking and drinking coffee.
If You Know Not Me You Know Nobody
She has been in the womb for ten months. She has stopped growing, but kicks harder every day. She will grow up to resent her mother, thinking she was held in for the extra month as punishment. She likes it when her mother sings. Tonight, she will escape and never stay anywhere for long again. She is Lindbergh.
Glimpses
She sits in silence watching him, eyes glued to his smile, his movements, his subtle gestures. His emotions etched perfectly into his fine face. She watches.
He sits; laughing, contemplating, smiling. There across from him sits the one he loves. Eyes honey brown and photo perfect.
If Academics Discovered Fire
- Academic Caveman #1: Did you notice that when lightning hits a tree it sometimes erupts in a bright hot light?
Academic Caveman #2: Yes, and the light spreads to all the other trees close by.
Academic Caveman #3: And it only stops when all the trees are gone.
The Gyre
One of those days. Not a pleasant one. She is bored of the nothingness after the completion of her (so far) magnum opus. Take a break, a breath, a holiday, they told her. Rest a little. Yes, she would like to do that, but one could not simply stop right here, right now, not after all those months. No, the words are still in her mind, turning and turning. Only one more week of this banality.
In Bed
The girl yawns and rolls over to discover the boy asleep in bed beside her, forgetting she had invited him up at the end of the night after too many drinks. Sunlight streams in through the useless white curtains she has strung up over the window above her bed. The boy lets out a slight snore; a familiar noise from a face she has looked at for years.
Letter From Post Secondary
Dear intellectually cornered friend,
It feels like it’s been a long time. I guess it hasn’t, really. I saw you last summer, and the Christmas before that; I saw you in Montreal when we were both visiting. How is your novella coming? I loved that Haiku you messaged me on Facebook.
From A to B
I imagine my beginning on the precipice of a fine land. Lines stretching to the horizon and paralleling its expanse. A tartan of social synapse waiting to be walked, talked, navigated. Baby steps do little to discover the distance.
No Cure For Bad Seeds
Back in the fifties, psychologists developed a process called Past Life Regression therapy. Oftentimes, patients will complain of a skin rash, a burning sensation or an emotional or sexual block. In other words, something that cannot be otherwise rectified by traditional therapies, doctors or medications. It is thought that these physical attacks to the body are manifestations of our past lives. They – the old us – are trying to tell us something. They are saying, pay attention. this is important.
Passage
My friend will be here any minute now. I am packing up the small meal I’ve made for us, folding the napkins, tucking it all into my bag. I am thinking of a place I’d like to show him. Tap, tap, tap. That must be him at the door.
Good Genes
She looked haggard and tired, like she’d lived a hard life. A veteran and hero of the great war that had been her life. She would have gotten a Purple Heart. She sauntered, defiant and proud in her old age, to the front of a classroom, leaning heavily on her crutches, where she would deliver the same speech as she did every time a teacher asked her to introduce students to the marvels of her library. She stood behind her podium, waiting for everyone to get back into class and resume their seats.
Love
A man of good stature leaves the CEO’s office, closing the door behind him to end the day. In a fine suit, younger than his newborn daughter, he makes his way out of the office building and to his car.
“Going home to meet the flowers,” he sings to himself.
The flowers in tune are the multi-coloured roses that were delivered to his wife this morning.
ROOTS for the Interview of
Blueprint Correspondent here! I was afforded the rare opportunity to interview the prolific writer Arthur Rousseau, who is best known for his memoirs (remarkable, considering the market is oversaturated with memoirs) and non-fiction.
Dear William
When I turned eleven, they found me in the orphanage. My orphanage.
They found me and took me and they proved with their science that I’m your descendant. Your “direct” descendant. Your great grandson, eighth generation.
“My God,” they said.
Olympic Spirit, Olympic Shame
Hey there. My name’s Jordan. I just started highschool this year in my hometown, Fort McMurray. But I’m not there right now. My family and I—that’s me, my parents and my little brother Mikey—are off to the Vancouver Olympics! It’s really exciting. In school we’ve been talking about supporting our athletes and cheering for Canada—I get to do it all live! And my family’s even more connected to all of it than lots of people, because my dad works for Petro Canada, and my mom works for RBC. They’re both supporting the Olympics. Cool, eh? The drive only takes two days!
