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The bus pulled up, unexpectedly, at 6 P.M. on the dot.

He fumbled in his pocket for the bus pass. The driver, a rotund East Indian gentleman with a formidable handlebar mustache stabbed his exhaust-tainted gloved finger at his chest, motioning for the stamping out of what was left of his Camel. He did so, clumsily, on the side of the fare box that stood at attention like a Roman infantry soldier of bygone times, leaving a dime-sized tint on the metal.

He slid in next to a faux-blonde in full armored black, topped with burlesque fishnets and dizzying platforms. The stench of cheap, perhaps expired perfume applied generously drifted over and up his nostrils like Zyklon-B gas. He resisted the urge to retch into her patent leather miniskirt-clad lap with some difficulty.

The back pocket of his jeans vibrated insistently, sending an unpleasant buzz from his rather narrow backside to the tip of his overtly tapered fingers. He wrestled the well-disguised torture device from his pocket, sliding it open with an unnecessary flourish and slamming it against his left ear breathlessly. The giggly adolescent girls sitting behind him poked each other and smothered their snickers behind garishly-painted nails.


Karenin, Elodie here. You at the theatre yet?

I’m on the bus. Give me five minutes, tops.

‘Kay, but I’m warning ya, the good seats are filling up fast. Run if you will.

No worries, I’ll fly.

Her muffled chuckles sounded strangely distorted, as if a creature of indeterminable stature had somehow got itself lodged between the phone lines. I’ll see you in a bit, then.

Click. Click.

Raindrops threw themselves at the bereaved windows like Kamikaze insects. Streetlights flying past emitted an eerily orange glow, reflecting off the water particles and bestowing them an unfortunate appearance of dollar-store crystals. Swiveling his head this way and that to keep from dozing off, he spotted the numbers 07.10.27. etched into the fine layer of mist atop the murky glass. He pondered their significance. Birthday? Anniversary? Day of Such Joy or Tragedy They Must Announce It To the World?

The robotic, cool-as-you-please female alto announced his stop loftily. Scrambling out of his seat and tottering a bit, he wobbled towards the exit on sea legs. The bus screeched abruptly to a halt; the package of Camels slid out of his overladen pocket and clattered to the ground. A burly, nearly-bald man stooped over and thrust the package at him, as if it held a radioactive spider of some kind in its four-by-three-by-one inch depths.

(To be continued)


My nose looks like an undercookedwalle radish. Sans la crunch.

Spent the afternoon gulping down Advil (well…maybe just three) and devouring Sophie’s Choice, which is also just the right size for a pillow if the eyes refuse to cooperate with the brain. Yes, fantastic, out-of-this-world writing can be lewd. Maybe overly so?

Oscars yesterday…best one of the decade, if I may speak. Insanely jealous of Marion Cotillard, Penelope Cruz, and a little bit frightened of Sophia Loren, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Donatella Versace. Must be the Italian blood. Hurrahs for Heath Ledger; that man had the glories piled onto him … posthumously. Funniest moment: spotting Robert Pattinson in the audience. Explained the giangantic clove of garlic Sean Penn was tossing up and down – or was it his balled-up acceptance speech? Wall-E brought back some _____ memories … should have watched that movie back then and not dismissed it as robots dry-humping [=. Oh yes, SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE, MUST WATCH MUST WATCH. And Vicky Cristina Barcelona. And The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and…

Lesson of the week: satires are not for everyone to attempt.

**New chapter is fresh from the oven and ready for the racks. Thursday does seem light years away ;]

This made my day X]

(Poor Ryuk, what did they do to him?!)


Eeny. Meeny. Miny. Moe.

Catch a. Tiger. By the. Toe.

If he. Hollers. Let him. Go.

Eeny. Meeny. Miny. Moe.

My mother says to Pick The Best One.







I feel like a snowman in June.

Ever since grade ten and beyond, I’ve been fighting one never-ending battle with myself –

After you’ve seen so much evil, so much woes of the world, do you just let yourself go, and descend into the maelstrom? Or do you hold on to what little goodness you have, and protect that with all your might, even as it trickles away like sand particles through your fingers?

“A long time ago, I taught myself not to cry, not to show my weakness in front of others. To be strong, to stand up for my beliefs. That may not always win me friends or endear me to some, but it’s the only way to stop myself from becoming a monster like the one I know all too well.”

“I work my way through life, dodging the bullets and failing 90% of the time. I try not to quit, try not to give up. The ups are sky-high, the lows are below sea level. Life is found somewhere in between.”

“I value my friends like no other. I gravitate towards those who are Special, who aren’t afraid to be themselves, who one can truly depend on. There aren’t too many left in the world, and I’m lucky to say I’ve met quite a few.’

“Bitterness. It gets you nowhere. No one can hate another all their life. Whatever it is, let it go.”

“Regret, what an exotic term…I’ve never really learned the true meaning of that.”

“Perfection is just an illusion, to be used sparingly, just like MSG.”

“Love, none can live without it. Love, it intoxicates and suffocates. Love, it’s yours to give and yours to receive.”


You met her, or rather, you’ve been acquainted with her since Grade 9. Strangers then…
And all of a sudden, fate tosses you the fishing hook of chance, and though it’s only been a few months, you feel like you’ve known each other for your whole life.
Laughter. Truly, nothing tops that.
She is my Energizer Bunny, what keeps me going…and going…and going…


This person you shall not name on the pain of death, but as soon as you mention “broomstick” it should become quite lucid.

You met him some time in the latter part of two-oh-oh-seven. At first, this was just a guy. A human Nemo who hasn’t fed for days. With a bit of a foul temper.
One day, you shuffle down the hallway with your head in Cloud 9, and it hits you harder than using a bottom locker and having the top person slip and drop the damn lock on your head.
For month, every other word that came out of your mouth was his name. You spent hours in the washroom, just for seeing him and being with him for less than half an hour. But when you’re together, not a word is passed…
You leave. The memories don’t.
One more second.
Three months.
For three months you were the walking dead.
Bit by bit, he fads away. His voice, just a murmur on the moving train. His face…
You wander over to that former sanctuary of sorts. Impulsively, you bound up the stairs, greeting all those people from your past. They greet you back, rather unenthusiastically. You resign to small-talking with one of his friends. Nonchalantly, you ask who is on duty the next day. He stares you straight in the eye.

The name startles you. A delicious bite of a childhood treat. You stumble down the stairs, dazed…
He is my Orpheus. Turnabout. Gone.


You’ve known this girl ever since you wore glasses and two barrettes across the top of your head. She knows you, I mean, KNOWS you. If there ever was a sentence-finishing contest, well…
This girl knows how to make you laugh when you’re sad, and vice versa. This girl refuse to be dragged down by anything life throws at her.
You would give anything to turn the clock back when she runs at you, screaming, trying not to cry.
You watch her laugh in relief as she finds out that nothing’s wrong after all. Suddenly, you wish you had your life back in one piece. You’re jealous, jealous of everything she has and you don’t. You toss out the harshest words off the top of your head, and stomp off to work.
You mull it over. You drown in remorse.
You want to say sorry, sorry, sorry. Sorry I hurt you once again. Sorry I messed up someone else’s life because I’m stupid, I’m weak.
Because we haven’t got forever, next year I won’t be here no more.
I don’t want to lose another person I care about.
My pillar, my clown, my best friend.
I miss ya now, I’ll miss ya even more when I’m gone.

Sometimes, I’m too pathetic for words.

Words can call the dead back to life. Words will make Lucifer do your bidding, assuming they’re pretty enough.

Dug up an old draft that never saw the light of scrutinizing eyes from The Summer of Oh Eight.

Think now’s the time to publish it. Open the old wound up. It’s been howling like a rabid pit bull.


Expresso Stupor

Sweet sixteen, eh?

I beg to differ.

Long story short. Went to Starbucks v. early in the morning w/A. , decided was in the mood for some coffeeventure, and bought two shots of pure, unfiltered black expresso. Not the best idea, especially when the previous night’s hours of slumber tallies to a grand total of one and three quarters. Hence the present nightofthelivingdead state. Stare. Stare. Stare. Blink.




How’s Superman doin’ today?

Not so well, thank you, m’dear.

Listen to me, two packs a day is all righty, but three is pushing it. Now gimme those.

He grins lopsidedly, a knight-errant glint surfacing from the depths of his caramel marble eyes . Four years and I’m alive and kicking. Miracle, isn’t it?

Her benign smile slides off her face like melted butter. You have no idea.

Oh, but I do.

She kicks at a discarded Starbucks cup. Grande; perhaps even Venti. It simply looked too big to hold any form of caffeine. Explains all the psychedelic eyes, she figures.

He fishes out his notebook, flips nonchalantly to the last page. December 9th, 3:18p.m., cigarette #53, Gauloises. Dee-lish.

I’m kinda cold. She whispers.

I suppose you expect me to act the Austenian gentleman and offer you my North Face with a gallantly sweeping bow, no?

You read my mind.

He tugs his left arm out of his sleeve gently, wraps it around her like a cocoon. She scoots closer, curls against his chest. Wisps of her hair snake up his navy blue sweater, aided by sinisterly playful particles of static electricity.

My gosh, I can feel your ribs through a thick honking sweater. How much do you weigh now?

Last time I checked, 124 pounds.

And when was that?

…Three weeks ago.

She winces.

He laughs lightly. Isn’t that the point?

A jogger huffs past them, throwing him an accusatory look. His eyes read: you are a disgrace to the male race. Get off your ass, scoot off to the gym and start pumping weights. Protein shakes would also do.

She snatches up his hand and jabs repeatedly at the numerous protruding veins, a la Wack-A-Mole. Did you hear Terence Glass in P.E. today? Said Holocaust survivors had more meat on them than you. Asked me how the hell was I hiding my bruises, and told me we gave “banging” a new definition.

Witty fellow, really.

He bends and stretches his fingers luxuriously. I’d love a copy of Chopin’s Nocturne in G Minor for Christmas. He winks.

That’s all?

Well, and a locked room with three day’s supply of food and fresh sheets, with just me and you inside, the keys tossed down the sewer.

How do we get out, then?

Break the window, break down the door. You can use me as the battering ram.

She coughs. I’d like a warranty, please.

He looks highly affronted. I’m made out of carbon and other unpronounceables, not porcelain.

She giggles into his chest, followed by a short round of rasping coughs. I don’t understand, tar seems to have no effect whatsoever on your respiratory system.

Dr. Evans is getting impatient. Another three months, I reckon, he’d cut off my cigarettes supply and starting IVing carcinogen into my arteries. Not that it’ll work, I presume. Even if I don’t look it, I’m a tough cookie.

She yawns, purring slightly like a naughty kitty. I’m getting sleepy…

No matter. My turn with the story anyways. I’ll drive you home. Where did we leave off?

The girl has fallen into the river. Her captors cannot swim. Then…

The fugitive is hiding behind the tree. He sees all, he can swim-

Of course he can, silly, otherwise how did he get the jewels from the island to the mainland?

Boats were invented then, Elodie darling.

He’s not Jack Sparrow. He’s just a poor young boy stealing for his family.

All right. So he can swim, he sees the fair maiden bobbing in the treacherous waters. The good side of him is saying: jump in, jump in and save her, let the cops shackle you up!

She untangles herself from his jacket and glares reproachfully. Cops? I thought this was the medieval times.

Sheriff and his men, law enforcers, whateveryoucallems. Happy?

Psh. Go on.

The good side of him is debating whether to save her or not, and the not-so-noble side is hissing into his ear: your family is starving. Get a move on, boy.

His finger splay, tap at the air, pounding the imaginary black and white keys. Come on now, your call. What will it be, fight or flight?


How ‘bout this? We have him sneak out from behind the tree, trot off home with his bag of jewels, buy medicine for his momma and five siblings, and they live happily ever after. Or we have him jump in doltishly and act the hero.

Act the hero then. But make it nice. Authentic and stuff.

Roger that. So our foolish country boy whips off his shirt, excuse me, tunic, dashes out from behind his hidey-hole, and plummets into the river, to the utter astonishment and bewilderment of the sheriff and company.

Hmm…does he have six-packs?

In his cheeks, yes.

You’re not nice. Go on.

The water rushes over his head. For a second, he was back in the ocean. But then his fingers close on locks of hair. He kicks hard, and finds her waist.

Why not her boobs?

That’s later in the story.

February 2009
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