Hey...

//Write a story about a relationship. It can be your relationship or one you’ve observed.

//Written for my writing class. Names changed for privacy.

Christmas music fills the open air of the market. The sun has long since fallen asleep. Fairy lights crisscross above our heads, replacing the stars. Crowds of smiling people mill about, drinking the sights around them. A dusting of snow outlines thousands of footprints. We make it through to the back of the market when we both see the Farris wheel. Decorated in red and green lights, each spin generates joyful screams.

I grin at Christopher, “We should ride it.”

“We might die on that thing.” He stares at the wheel, looking almost impressed. The rusted metal looks about ready to fall apart.

I feel my face soften, “I think I’d be happy with that, just for tonight.”

He pauses when he gazes down at me, “I couldn’t agree more.”

“C’mon then, lets go.” I take his hand and we grab a spot in line.

I watch Chris’ breath intertwine with the space between us. As it starts to dissipate, a breath of my own follows. The air kisses my exposed cheeks and I burrow deeper into my scarf. We stand in each other’s company, inching closer to the front of the line. When we’re two spots away from the ride, Chris looks up.

“I didn’t realize it was this tall.” The corners of his mouth turn apprehensively.

I glance up to see what he means. The faded, colorful seats sway between the two halves of the wheel.

“I dunno, it seems a little small. I’ve ridden taller rides at Canada’s Wonderland. This isn’t so bad in comparison.” I shrug, distracted by the way his brown hair gleams orange under the Christmas lights.

“I’ve never actually been to Canada’s wonderland.”

“Makes sense, I don’t think you would travel all the way from Quebec just for that. Have you been on a roller-coaster before, though?”

“Uh… no I haven’t. There weren’t any amusement parks where I lived.”

“Dude, I’m so taking you to Wonderland this summer. It’ll be fun!”  

He chuckles and casts another weary glance at the ride, “Sure, but I should probably tell you I’m afraid of heights.”

The confession takes me by surprise. My focus snaps to his eyes. There’s a hard twinge in my stomach. “We don’t have to ride it if you don’t feel comfortable.” The ride operator leads two people into the wheel. We’re now at the front of the line.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I wouldn’t have suggested riding it.”

The operator opens the gate for us and waits to beckon us in.

Chris smiles down at me, “You looked so cute and excited when you saw it. I couldn’t say no. Besides, we’ve been standing in line for a while. Kind of a waste if we leave now.” He shrugs, “I need to get over my fear eventually. C’mon.”

We follow the operator to the wheel.

My breath catches when I sit in the metal seat. It stains my back with cold and seeps the warmth from my legs. Once we’re belted in, Chris wraps an arm around me. The wheel turns one tick at a time as the operator allows the rest of the seats to be filled with new riders. The flimsy seat rocks slightly. I feel his body tense as we near the top. The noise is muted from the crowds below. Not even wind fills the silence.

The wheel slides another notch. Now we sit, suspended at the top of the earth. A glittery Christmas dream spreads out on our right. Underneath the fairy lights, the crowds shift as one murky being. When I look over to my left, a small chunk of Toronto skyline presents itself clearly.

“Are you doing ok?” I ask through the silence.

“I’ll admit, it’s a nice view.” He stares over my head at the tiny people and his mouth relaxes into a soft curve. I feel his body unwind beneath me.

His expression becomes cheeky as his eyes focus on mine. “But I think I have the best view right here.”

//Write a piece about a place. You are encouraged to write about a work place. (Spoiler alert: I didn’t write about a workplace.)

//Written for my writing class.

“Now arriving at… St. Andrew’s. St. Andrew’s station. Doors will open on the left.”

A single tone chimes through the subway cars as each door opens. I stand against a door on the right, facing the inside of the car. Everyone is on the subway today. I can barely see around the man in front of me as dozens of passengers squeeze onto the coach. The passengers scooch into each other, desperately trying to create more space for the new wave.

“Please stand clear of the doors.”

The descending tri-tone plays over the speakers. I hold my breath as the doors slide closed behind a lady. Her purse juts too close to the exit. They clack together with ease and I breathe again. The subway hisses and presses forward.

My body lurches to the right and my grip tightens on the red safety bar. The wheels screech as the subway accelerates.

“Our next station is… Union. Union Station.”

Most of the passengers keep their eyes on the floor or the wall. They wear slack faces and grim gazes. I only hear the subway cars jostle and the passengers’ coats shift.

“Now arriving at… Union. Union Station. Doors will open on the right.”

I turn to face the doors. The people behind me shuffle closer. I stare at my reflection in the tinted glass. We all wait, motionless, for the doors to open. Behind the glass, people stand on the platform, staring into the subway.

The tone rings, the doors spread apart. Noise explodes around me.

Conversations from the people on the platform crash into each other as I hop out of the subway. I can’t hear my own footsteps over the sound of hundreds of others. We ascend the stairs into the hub of the station. I hear music coming from above. It becomes louder as I reach the top. I see two musicians just outside the green Presto gates. Each one holds a saxophone roughly the size of their bodies. They’re in the middle of a jazzy number. A few people bump into me and I scurry out of the way. I push past the gates and stop in front of the musicians. An open saxophone case rests on the floor in front of them.

Their faces contort as they force more and more air into their brass beasts. The music reverberates in my chest and my face splits into a smile. The noise of the passing people disappears under the horns. The musicians bounce to the beat of their music. Commuters pause to watch and sprinkle a few coins in the case. A few children totter over to the case and clumsily deposit change. Their mother stands not too far, nodding to the music. Several people stop to take out their phones and capture the moment.

The saxophonists land the final note and hold it.

I feel like I’ve lost something once the music stops. They each take a small bow. I remember I have a train to catch and I place some change in the case before I leave.

They start up another song as I dive back into the stream of people.

//Write a piece about a childhood memory.

//An assignment for my writing class. Names changed for privacy.

A patch of dandelions idles in front of me. I look down into their golden faces and listen to my classmates as they play in the sand. Their feet bang against the twisted metal of the jungle gym. I brush a finger across a flower. When I let go, my finger comes away yellow.

I reach for the roundest flower I can find. The stem breaks with a tiny snap. It feels rubbery and hollow. I lift the flower towards my face and examine it. Millions of small, yellow petals overlap around the face of the plant. It reminds me of lizard scales. I put it down next to me and continue to comb through the grass. Dirt settles between my fingers.

Satisfied with the amount, I bundle the flowers between my palms. The sun becomes hidden behind a cloud and I shiver. I want to put my coat on. I meander over to where I left it on a bench.

As I move across the park, Mark comes up to me. A pink flush stains his cheeks.

“You should get rid of those dandelions.” His soft blue eyes scrunch together.

I look at the flowers in my hands. I stare up at him, “Why?”

“They’re poisonous.”

I don’t believe him. “I always pick dandelions. I’m not putting them down.”

His soft blue eyes scrunch together. “I want you to get rid of them. They’re poisonous.”

“Well, I won’t.” I want him to leave me alone. The other kids start migrating to us. They stand behind Mark and talk amongst themselves

“What’s happening?” A few of them ask.

“She’s has dandelions!” Mark says.

I pause. I contemplate. I bolt.

My feet mash into the sand as I run. This is the fastest I have ever moved. They run after me, shrieking and yelling. I make it to a lone piece of equipment. There is a white ladder on one side and a firepole on the other. I shove the flowers into one hand and start climbing. The metal rungs feel frigid against my skin. The other kids crowd around the bottom of the firepole.

I look down into their faces. They squint against the sun and shout at me, concerned. Maybe I have it wrong.

I stare into the bundle and realize my fingers had clamped around the flowers, crushing their stems. I loosen my grip to prevent further damage.

“I’m not doing it!” I shout down, without conviction.  

I hear footsteps against the ladder. I see the sandy blond top of Mark’s head. Without thinking, I take a small step back.

“Drop the flowers.” He starts to come closer. I cast a glance behind me, I might have to jump.

“You can’t jump. Just put them down.”

“I told you, they’re not poisonous. I always pick dandelions.” I tilt the yellow faces towards him, to prove my point. I want him to see how pretty they are. “Look, they’re harmless.”

The shouting bubbles from bellow.

“But they’re weeds! Look at your hands!”

I stare down into my fingers. They are covered in small spots of what looks like milk. I quickly recall every other time I’ve picked dandelions. I have never seen this before. I start to panic, I don’t know what to do. I want to keep the flowers. I want the other kids to stop bothering me.

I am startled as Mark knocks the flowers out of my hands. I make a noise of surprise. The dandelions fall over the side of the ledge and hit the sand. My stomach drops with them.

“Why’d you do that?” Why couldn’t he just leave me alone?

He shrugs, “It wasn’t really that hard. All you had to do was drop them.”

I turn away from him and swallow down the lump in my throat.

The other kids as they start to walk away. Their voices sound relieved, like they have saved me. When I turn to look at Mark, he’s already climbing back down the ladder.

My hands stick to the ladder as I climb down a few moments after him. My palms are lightly stained green. Dirt outlines the cracks between my fingers. I walk over to my fallen bouquet.

Carefully, I unearth as many flowers as I can. Sand hides between the petals. It removes the luster from their golden complexion. It sticks to their stems and gets under my fingernails.

They kept to the shallows

And refused to follow me

I want to fall in love with you again

We used to spend so much time

Kissing honeydew suns

Imagining what would someday be

Do you still believe in that?

Do you still believe all things I said

That I'd become?

I don't

I want to believe and become

And I know I'll get there

But everything I used to love

Somehow turned stale

When I wasn't looking

Hello world

Teach me to love again, please

I want to taste that sun

Just

I am a train of thought tangled Within itself It can go anywhere Tracks leading nowhere I see a star with my name on it And I reach, arm hopefully outstretched Fingers wrapping

Ouch

Skin burning, peeling, blistering I don’t know where I’m going anymore Those stars aren’t so good at guidance As they once were

I’m so fucking scared

Free falling locomotive Losing self esteem, so erosive Scenery passing, there’s no motive Can’t think straight, too emotive Brain slow and thick, like it’s coated

In molasses 

And all these classes I need to take I’m not afraid of heights But these stakes Too high, too sharp

What should I choose? My brain or my heart?

Please stand clear of the doors Said my train brain, pounding forth Stars are just dreams Waiting to die a second time

Will I have to forgive myself?

Can I?

Saturated in salt

As I emerged

Delighted to find that the sun

Had risen

Winking from behind a cloud

> The curtains in the house are sealed shut

> You sit at the breakfast bar in the kitchen

> Only the kitchen lights are on; the rest of the house is dark

> You more so feel than see the edges of velvet night, melting together against the horrizon

> You more so feel than hear the light snores of the houses around you

> You more so feel than experience the collective slumber that consumes the rest of the world

> It consumes everyone but you

> The world feels so endlessly empty

> And right at the center of this empty endlessness stands nothing but yourself

> Face illuminated by a laptop screen, there is a blanket draped around your shoulders

> Faint music drifts out of the speakers - quiet so as not to disturb the sleeping members of the household

> Occasionally, your cramping fingers get a break when you reach for your mug of lukewarm-caffinated-liquid

> There are several ring prints underneath it

> Occasionally, your cramping fingers get a break when you slide from your word document to your internet browser

> A plethora of tabs - databases, periodicals, citation machines and a stale wikipedia page

> The refrigerator awakens, begins to hum

> You glance at the oven. Green numbers gaze back

> You go back to your keyboard

> The withered taste of caffeine, monotonous sound of typing, empty sounds of not-quite-midnight - they fill you

Never want the scorched hand To guide the match Close enough to burn the arteries

Should your soul burn Means those blackened nails Dipped your soul in gasoline

Toxic

Once the lighter fluid empties Smoke ignites between cracks in the bone

Empty Dinner Plates

A list sealed to the inside of my nose

Of things I don't remember

Even writing down

/

But I turn my eyes towards my hands

I find that I am still writing

Writing so much none

Of it ever so accurate as to describe

/

The lady bug on my cheek

Reminder that all anyone ever owes

Anyone is the kindness

That has since learned to be stored

/

In the back of the fridge

Behind the eggs and the bread

Where nobody can ever find it

Because they're reading the lists

/

On the front of the fridge

Ones nobody remembers writing

But here they are

Meanwhile a stomach roars

/

Starved, it is

And maybe not for kindness

Perhaps seeking something further

But its a stomach

/

All it knows is hunger and fulfilment

So it writes a forgettable list

And thinks about eating

The lady bug on your cheek

- Eggshells and Dough