A Column of The Miramichi Reader
The first time I saw Freddie Mercury in our elevator, he caught my eye and flashed me a grin. “I’ve seen you at the Wine Vine,” I said. Everyone in the neighbourhood called him Freddie, because he was a dead ringer. Small and fierce, with big teeth and a clipped moustache. He even dressed the …
On top of my grandma’s dresser were three heads. Even though they had no eyes, I was sure they were watching me as I played with Grandma’s jewelry and sneaked peeks into her drawers. I named them Flora, Fiona, and Frances and made up elaborate stories about their elegant, glittering lives. Every morning, one of …
The morning after the moon explodes, Marla wonders if she imagined the whole thing. She rushes down the stairs, two at a time, hoping the chaotic images flooding her brain are memories leftover from some surreal nightmare. But no, her mother is pacing in front of the television, cigarette dangling from her lips. Phone cradled …
The rain has let up and she’s walking her dog in the neighbourhood park. Broadleaf maples tower above the trail forming a canopy, leaves gleaming bright green, scrubbed of dust. Streams of golden pollen pool at the trail’s edge. The air smells washed, new. There’s a word for it, she thinks. Petrichor. She says it out …
“I once knew a man who was inside out, though he wore his hat in the usual way.” “This is you that I am referring to Franz,” said Max, pointing to the page he was reading from. “Don’t be absurd!” Franz replied, pulling his insides more closely towards him with both arms lest they touch …
My first kiss: on a playground in first grade, our bodies curved inside a tunnel like plaque clogging the arteries of a heart. No one could crawl through us. While we kissed, we could hear a boy climb up onto the roof and lie down. He poked his head over the edge, his upside-down neck …
When she takes off her shoes and steps into the Dojo; when she sheds her dress, the soft shell peels off her skin; when she winds a long, white band around her breasts before slipping into the Keikogi, its wide sleeves cut at her elbows; when she pulls the Hakama up her legs, tying the …
Her husband says they have enough. He folds his hand over hers, the one wielding the knife, and she stops slicing the breakfast bread. Their eyes meet. The word “enough” sounds foreign to her, as though it has lost all meaning. They eat one lightly buttered sandwich each and drink substitute coffee. All day long, …
You’re sitting on your stoop thinking how much you hate the stoop, the building you live in with six side-by-side apartments (now called townhouses) and the neighborhood. You hate the neighborhood because all of the stoops in all of the buildings and all of the wire fenced-in tiny yards smaller than a jail cell look …
The day is slowing to a shiver now, slowing and blacking into night and that’s when your father comes home, hole in his soul, and says things like supper and bitch, and your mother slams back you’re late, you’re late. And you, you are standing there, not knowing which way to turn, and the anger …
Tonight I am in the park alone. Ma has been slamming cupboards, sweeping, scrubbing the small fridge, muttering. She used to work six days in Friesen’s Bake-o-Rama, and was never around. But when she did come home, she’d open a beer, give me a sip, and tell stories about Lin and Manuela and Crazy Carmen …
When I reach the bus stop, my mother’s gone. Is she lying in that puddle outside the Opera House? Or did I lose her in the lobby, distracted by the man wearing one red glove and clutching a bible? Retracing my steps, I find her under the twinkling chandelier, crooning a childhood lullaby. I approach, …