Le P

Dinners out with my aunt and cousins in the early ’80s are memories that linger fondly. Eating at a restaurant was a rarity for us—my then 33 year-old single dad with three kids under the age of 12.
     It was woody, dark and cavernous with tacky saloon doors and an over-powering aroma of gravy.
     I barely remember the dinners, but I do remember the desserts. Holding my cafeteria tray, I would stare in awe through the finger-smeared plexiglass at the deluge of choice. Mostly jellos of various artificial colours with perfectly placed globs of chemical whip cream.
     Ponderosa. 

Inspired by Voss. Photo by 2womenwithapast on eBay.

Voss

Wrapping up the company, we needed some expenses to offset our sales, and so I’m sitting in the Harbour Sixty steakhouse asking for just water.
     “Sparkling or still, sir?”
     And although I’m about to indulge in The Most Expensive Meal Ever, part of me is hanging back at Swiss Chalet with my mother, who always considered beverages an unnecessary expense when the water was free and, figuring that “still” is just fancy talk for “tap,” makes what I think is the most frugal choice . . . and ends up with 800ml from an artesian Norwegian well and another $12.00 on the tab.

Inspired by A Causality Dilemma on Roncey. Image by Voss.

A Causality Dilemma on Roncey

A couple cans of beer
A tablespoon of fishy blancmange in a tepid yellow sauce
A potato pancake
A small bowl of beets
2 playing card-sized slices of pumpernickel
And a sliver of apple pie . . . $82
And the music. My God.

That’s 41 words and coincidently my share of the bill. 

I will now leave the remaining space, where fifty-nine words should be, for quiet self-reflection over my most recent money piss-away. What came first? The ridiculous concept of “Small Sharing Plates” or the entitled foodie-stooge willing to pay $16 for a pickerel quenelle the size of a Queen olive? 

Inspired by A Postmodernist Hundred. Photo by Noblige.

A Postmodernist Hundred

First Fred goes away and takes a pass on his turn. Then Nancy does, and I’m unexpectedly due to post next on the Corpse. But it’s Thanksgiving (Canadian, that is), and everyone’s visiting, and I’ve also got some work to finish. Really, I’ve no time, nada, to drabble, but I hate missing deadlines, and it’s only a hundred words. So, what should I write about? Someone suggests AI, but that’s depressing. I consider doing one on Trump, but he’s even money or better to win, and that’s truly depressing. So what’s that leave me? Three, two, one. There. I’m done. 

Inspired by circumstance. Image by Laura Chick.

Pride & Prejudice

The Church Lady on Garden still hovers.
     I brought her mixed nuts but she refused. Another day she offered me $5.00 and politely asked to buy her a “medium black coffee with a raspberry danish from Hot Oven Bakery.” She was that specific. She rejected the sugar. And implored me to take away an unopened bottle of Polish grape juice.
     I was humbly and sheepishly reminded that everyone can have a preference despite their life circumstances. During this weekend’s delivery, I truly wondered how her body continues on, but it does and so does her will, as she asks when I’ll be back. 

Inspired by Thanksgiving.
Photo by Wendy Whelan.

Did he fall or was he pushed?

Just as I suspected: trees can control when they drop their leaves . . . and maybe even if. In fact, it appears they don’t so much drop them as push them away. Of course, I base this entirely on an observation of the single tree in our front yard, upon which, after all its leaves had fallen this year, I noticed a single dead, dangling branch with every leaf intact. They were also all dead, of course, but still sticking fast. The tree had probably wanted to get rid of them too, but couldn’t.
     Is there a metaphor here that I’m missing?

Inspired by The Return of Little Gerry. Image by Image Creator.

The Return of Little Gerry

L.G. is 14 years old.  He grew quickly, then left home to live with Angelika when he was six. This summer he returned to us because he was feeling poorly.
     “He's better,” I said to her. “You should take him back.” But she refused, so he lived outside.
     The fall nights are getting colder, obviously he had to come in.  But now he’s a hefty sixty pounds, and it’s very hard for him to get up the stairs, thus we emptied the back room.
     For a plant.
     We’re squished like sardines. Gerry got an $850 chair to keep him company. 

Inspired by Mums. Image—Can I pee on it?—by Laurie.

Courage 2

A spring evening in Krakow, a long lineup at a local restaurant. I invite the elderly man behind us to join us at our table. He is friendly, his English halting. He was an engineer and once lived in California. I ask how, in communist times, he could move to the United States. He explains that he built a radio transmitter for Solidarity during martial law. When Radio Solidarity was busted he escaped and lived in exile until the regime fell. All this in an unassuming, almost shy voice. You must come visit my house, he says when we part.

Inspired by Courage in the face of authoritarianism. Photo of the Solidarity memorial in Warsaw by Ron Thompson.

Mums

I so want to buy those overflowing pots of mums. Lots and lots of them to bedazzle my house with yellow and russet. But they don’t last long and then I’d be stuck with dead flowers and too many plastic pots. Instead, I try to notice them. To appreciate their ephemeral pop of colour in the Autumn sunshine. To watch the trees in their glory and bear witness when the last of their jewelled leaves fall. To be fully present when the world turns and nature succumbs to November’s relentless grey. To be still hopeful a cleansing snow will follow.

Inspired by Urban Escape. Photo by Nancy.

Urban Escape

How to escape the urbanity of artisanal beards and authentic gym-made muscles by working the land, working the earth then be rewarded with callouses, whole body aches, trickles of blood—which sound like discomfort, yet are still more tolerable than ails garnered from a desk job because it makes sense to wince when branches of prickly ash whip across my face or wild rose thorns jab through clothes into skin whereas I can't solve the mystery of why my lower back aches from sitting in front of a computer. Unlike purchased authenticity, the real thing often makes you bleed.

Inspired by La feuille d’or. Photo by Fred Ni.

La feuille d’or

Dear yellow-orange leaf, there you blow.

It pains me to see you, such resistance I have to your change. 

I know you will flood me with warm days and cool nights. 

With sights and colours that leave me in awe.

But on this sweet September morning, I don’t want you to be there. 

This hazy breeze will soon be no more. 

The childhood freedoms that recirculate through our veins will recede again.

The serious Fall and fridged Winter, they twinge my heart. 

You will fall dear leaf but you are not dead.

Resting in a deep sleep, awaiting your rebirth.

Inspired by Out the Window. Photo by Wendy Whelan

Perchance to Dream

I woke up this morning dreaming I’d just won the lottery; even though I can’t remember the last time I played it for real. I dreamed myself photocopying my tickets (just in case I lost them) and I got to wake up wondering how I was going to spend all the money I’d won . . . all of which I took as a sign, especially since the jackpot hadn’t been won in a while and today was the day of the draw. My premonition even told me how many tickets to buy.
     Wouldn’t this have been a better story if I’d actually won?

Inspired by Beatitudes. Illustration by Bryant Arnold.

Beatitudes

Because Julie gave him honey, he blesses her bees.  He also blesses her, and if I'm outside he blesses me too. He gives us a set of magical numbers and a task. Last time it was, “Complete what you started!” So, I cleaned and organized my office.  Once he shouted, “1-1-1-1!” I checked my email: 111 unread messages.
     Julie, Angelika, and I are his disciples and welcome his daily affirmations. After he passes, will his image appear in a Dr. Oetker pizza? Will we hang tiny shopping carts around our necks as symbols of faith? Is this how it starts? 

Inspired by A Woman Rebuts the Minister of Virtue and Vice. Photo of Drugstore Jesus by L. Leclair.

A Woman Rebuts the Minister of Virtue and Vice

You say God is great and we are all God’s creatures. Yet you treat us like we are God’s mistake. 

     Consider what you can see of me. 

     You cannot tolerate the shape of my body because it excites you.

     Nor gaze upon my face because it enamours you.

     Nor stand the sight of my hair because it arouses you. 

     Now, you silence my voice because it tempts you.

     Oh, hate-filled little man—a woman is not a living vice, a mistake.

     You blame your weakness on women and stone us for it. 

     Assuredly, God knows His one mistake was you.

Inspired by Say No More. Photo by Wakil Kohsar.

Out the Window

No seatbelt, cool night air from open windows, lying on the backseat, the rhythmic flicker of yellow street lights seen through closed eyelids.
     From the 504 on King, workers spill out from office towers, pent-up energy free at last, buzzing, clustering, weaving—a pub patio awaits.
     Sky watching on the way to Grand Bend, clouds part, a ray shines down like The Ten Commandments, wind turbines on farm fields silhouetted against a pink twilight.

Along the 401, the wild flowers in the ditches—a meditative blur of purple, white and yellow. So much life even in the dullest of landscapes.

Inspired by Passenger. Photo by Zoteva.

Passenger

In the dark, I try to think about something else
and not think about Rocky in his dogbed
coughing and settling
coughing and settling

If I could replace Rocky’s heart, he would still be he
If I could replace his lungs, he would still be he
If I could replace his cloudy eyes
his insensitive eardrums
his shattered knees
he would still be my Rocky

His body will fail him but his body is not who he is
His body is an old car, running down
If I could just open the door
take the passenger out
keep him safe


Inspired by Misko and his Sister from Another Mister. Photo by Fred Ni.

Say No More

You whittle me down with your snide remarks.
Sub-terrain, I’m surfing now.
Always something to say, to sear me, to expose me.
To make me cry inside. 
You say you’re sorry, it was just fun, but we both know. 
It’s your judging ego.
You think you’re clever and funny.
But you’re a gaping hole. 
Like a dead star, with no light to give.
Combusting of toxic narcissism.
You’ll play nice again for a short while.
Say the right things, taking secret actions. 
Sell yourself a bill of integrity. 
But buying rotting goods. 
You’ll live in denial and die there too. 

Inspired by Like Cats and Dogs. Photo by Joachim Schnürle.

Like Cats and Dogs

I liked cats, but she liked dogs. A real dog person.

     And it showed.

     She tried so hard to be happy, all the time. But when something did go wrong, she was the first to apologize. Just not to me.

Even if she thought someone had screwed her over, she’d still go out of her way to make everything right again. Unless it was me.

     She practically begged for approval, but not from me.

     In all her relationships, she was oh so happy just to be part of the pack. But in ours, she made it clear who was Alpha.

Inspired by Misko and his Sister from Another Mister. Image from some random YouTube video.

Misko and his Sister from Another Mister

Where are you, my old friend? I looked for you in all your favorite spots—Mom’s office, in my puppy bed by the window and even downstairs where the scary roundy-round-soap-monster lives. I wanted more games of Peek-a-Boo, ’Round the Chairs, Under the Table, Over the Lazy Brown Dog. One more drink at our water bowl where I'd pretend to be a wolf, and you a lioness.
      Just one more snuffle. Maybe even a scratch.
     I was your Owl and you my Pussycat on our Pea Green couch-Boat. I’m glad I kept you warm while you sailed away.

Inspired by Sister Warriors. Photo of Willow’s last night by Laurie.

Presidential Afterlife

“. . . like an orange Don Rickles . . .” Reagan was saying. 

      Washington leaned towards FDR and whispered, “Who’s Don Rickles?”

      “. . . obsessed with crowd size! Well, you know what I’d say to that. ‘Mister Gorbachev, tear down his pants!’”

      This got a laugh from the more recent arrivals. 

      “Then he says he’s better looking than his opponent. They never said that about you, did they, Abe?”

      Everybody laughed except Lincoln, who gazed over their heads at a cloud. I had a whole lifetime of that, he thought sourly, and now an eternity of it from these guys. ‘Better angels of our nature,’ my ass!

Inspired by Sister Warriors and the numerous afterlives I've imagined, the first one being here. Painting by Andy Thomas.

Sister Warriors

I went to school with a black eye. We’d been play-wrestling on the bed and my sister kicked me (by accident I’m sure). Once she pulled me off the couch by my hair. In an old photo, Lianne has a great scratch on the side of her cheek. Mom had probably planned the visit to the photographer’s months before and I can just hear her voice: “Of all the days, girls!” In the picture we are little angels—off camera we were warriors. That scrappy spirit has sustained us through life, and we’re still fighting—just not against each other.

Inspired by Rocky Mountain High. Photo of my sister (on the left; look closely for the scratch) and me, circa 1965 or 1966.

Rocky Mountain High

Born three days apart in the Spring of ’69.

More than just cousins, and best friends.

We put on lavish plays and sang John Denver in the back of the RV.

You loved the city, and I the country; and how we loved the boys.

Our childhood years flew—a crevice of independence opened between us.

Poignant and painful, we were lured separate ways.

The road to reuniting lay before us. But I couldn’t find it and you were forced to detour.

We spoke once briefly and softly near the end.

So brave you must have been. Only 27.

Inspired by A Great Looking Couple. Image from Britannica.

A Great Looking Couple

Could it really be that she had never been out with a regular group of guys before?
      “I suppose that’s how heterosexual men behave when they get together,” she said on the way back home.

That was the word she used—heterosexual—to distinguish her new boyfriend from the gay male friend she preferred hanging out with; or at least that’s the impression she gave him, what with comments like that. And comments like this: “People tell me that Alex and I make a great looking couple. Isn’t that funny?”
     Funny, he thought, that no one says that about us.

Inspired by Jan the Jammy Bastard. Photo by Microsoft Image Creator.

Jan the Jammy Bastard

Jan met his future wife on a Spanish beach: They shared a Seville orange under the blistering sun and fell in love. Of course they did, because Jan had a horseshoe up his Belgian ass. We were in a graduate historiography course together and while the rest of us donkeyed through lengthy presentations, Jan would hold the offending book aloft, roll his grey eyes and ask, Do you buy it?
     Our prof, rendered squiffy by his Ubermensch intellect and veiny biceps, just trilled, Yes!! Yes!! That’s it, Jan!
     And we would clop back to the library, hapless and ordinary.

Inspired by Rave. Photo by Eugene Chystiakov.

Rave

She found me in the writhing mass. We danced. Strobe lights, pulsing bass beat, gyrating bodies surrounding us—we spun and moved with them. She wore a black crop top and short skirt, showing off body, booty, fine legs. We danced. Wild hair, eyes darkly lined. She came closer, put her hand to my bicep, brought her lips to my ear. I strained to hear what she said. Closer still, arms now around my neck, eyes locked on mine. I felt heat and sweat. Our heat. Our sweat. She smiled and led me towards the exit, soft fingertips on mine.

Inspired by Eye Soul and Black Roses. Photo by Kena Betanchur, AFP.

Eye Soul

Eyes are the mirror of the soul.
Souls are reflective?
What of a soul darkened by a life of misery caused and earned
such that any light which enters is grasped like greed grasps lucre
such that no light escapes to give reflection?
What of a soul bereft of friendship, loveship, familyship
– malnourished and shriveled –
how does that reflect in the eyes?
Are these the eyes of an ever-stranger?
These flinty eyes accompanying a forked tongue,
such flint of the kind that’s used to ignite corruption.
And can a cheap skin-tone matched foundation and mascara cover that shit up?

Inspired by Black Roses. Photo/illustration by Fred Ni.

Black Roses

“Jesus Murphy Mary and Joseph”, he muttered, admonishing her. “Where do you think you’re going with that black eyeliner on? . . . The sight of you. . . . And those clothes. . . . You’re not leaving the house like that.”

     She threw on a sweater and washed her face. She tried to drum up an ounce of defiance but sank silently in the breaking waves of unremitting Irish shame. 

Shrunken, she rang her friend’s doorbell. “Come in, let’s do up our eyes like Benatar”, Jayne said gently. 

     They pulled out the Clairol lighted mirror and belted “we are strong, no one can tell us we’re wrong”.

Inspired by Pat Benatar and the Corpse’s recent posts. Original photo by Lynn Goldsmith. 

Murphy

“I thought things were going good,” she said. “No pressure. No commitments.”
     “But you practically make me hide when your friends come over!”

     “Can’t you just enjoy our time together?” she said. “Besides, you hate it when I ask you to dress nice, and you think my friends are stupid.”

     “I never said that.”
     “And you probably think I’m stupid, too.”

“That’s not it at all,” he said. “All I’m trying to say is that I don’t like being treated like a fucking Murphy bed.”
     “There you go,” she said. “I don’t even know what a fucking Murphy bed is.”

Inspired by I’m Speaking. Image from Detour (1945).

I’m Speaking.

Dumb as a rock, Donald calls me. Horrible and incompetent. Totally failed and insignificant. (Projecting much?) Crazy—“though not as crazy as Nancy Pelosi.” (You just can’t help yourself, can you, Motormouth? Maybe you are too old for the job.)
     His minions aren’t holding back. I’m not grateful enough. I’m just collecting a check. I’m a diversity hire. And they don’t like my laugh. You know what all their dog whistling’s about. This, from church-going, “family values” folk singing hallelujahs for rapture.
     They are losing their shit. You think they’re bothered now? Just wait till they see my running mate.

Inspired by Cooling Off. Image of Kamala Harris (in 2020) by Chandan Khanna/AFP via Getty Images

Cooling Off

The kitchen table was so close to the fridge that, during family dinners, whenever she felt a hot flash coming on she’d pause in the middle of her diatribe about politics or global warming or ungrateful teenagers, and, without getting up, turn, open the bottom drawer and stick her head in the freezer. Instant relief. Everybody would laugh. But she didn’t mind. She figured it made menopause an everyday thing—not something to hide or never mention. Besides, those cooling-off pauses were useful for changing her words or the mood at the table. Perhaps politicians should adopt a similar practice.

Inspired by Hot & Heavy. Photo of Nancy’s fridge by Nancy.

Hot & Heavy

As we finished up our morning trek, I was about to internally ignite from the stifling humidity and my waning estrogen. I yanked down my zipped tank to air out the fiery biscuits when hubby shot out his arm in a Seinfeld stopped-short-move to shield the girls.

You know I can go topless I retorted, like that sweaty, middle-aged well-upholstered hairy guy that just ran by us.

     And I thought to myself, I wonder what it would be like to go about my business in this world, half-naked and confident with no fear of being objectified, debased or assaulted. 

Inspired by this week’s weather and Seinfeld. Image by eightonesix.

Pantone 124

One day the owners of Rambunctious Software got their hands on a colour chart and decided that their official corporate colour would be Pantone 124. And since, back then, they were still doing it all pretty much themselves, everything they purchased for the company going forward was chosen to match their new favourite colour, but not quite. All this, of course, would eventually end up driving the new graphic designer to distraction, because not only were the colours they’d chosen entirely inconsistent, the closest thing they all did match, to his jaundiced eye, was the distinctive colour of baby shit.

Inspired by Hugh Flung Poo. Image by the author, with some help from Mediamodifier.

Hugh Flung Poo

“Oh my God, it’s worse than I thought!” This from Dan’s co-worker, after he saw a picture of the tiles I bought for our bathroom reno. Porcelain white subways with a distressed, belle epoch-serre-lived-through-the-war treatment. Dan hated them, so called in a second opinion.

     I told him he’d been ruined by all the pablummy-greize rooms he’s worked on. 

     But the coup de grâce was his: “Well, there’s a reason they don’t sell toilets with antiqued brown glazing.”

After that, I couldn’t unsee the ersatz shit smears, so we returned them, but kept a few to tut-tut my execrable misstep. 

Inspired by A Statement by the Artists Collectively Known as Barksy. Loft White Glazed 3x6″ Tiles from the Home Hardware Building Centre.

A Statement by the Artists Collectively Known as Barksy

I’ve come to consider what Duke and I do as performance art. Duke produces the initial piece; I handle installation. Duke is singular of purpose; I’m the one who thinks outside the bin. Our typical work (Panel 1) is conventional, though its street placement is controversial. Panel 2 showcases some of Duke’s solo work. Panel 3 is one of my favourites; I call it “Why knot?“ (And why indeed, when there’s so much open space in the neighbourhood?) Sometimes (Panel 4) we’re just two artists trying to collaborate, and the end result doesn’t come together. Allow us our artistic freedom. 

Libertarian pooformance art images captured by Ron Thompson. Inspired by Steamed Buns and stuff on my shoe.

Steamed Buns

Tail end of the night, I cheekily start shaking my booty on the dance floor with a cutie patootie, up to my keister in beautiful people way younger than me. This asshole butts in. Fundament-ally uncool, I say. 

“Stick it where the sun don’t shine!” he replies. 

I shove hard. He lands on his tuchus. Pretty derrieres flee the scene. The bouncer shoves us out the backdoor. Bummed and rump-led, our backsides hit the pavement. We laugh. 

“Peckish?” he asks. 

I shrug. “I could eat.” 

“I know this all-night Chinese take-out place." 

“Hell yes, I'd love some nice steamed buns.” 

Inspired by Some Butts.. Photo by JJ Wong.

Some Butts

Some butts are soft like butter
Some butts are hard as rock
Some butts are round and plump
Some butts are chiseled from a stump
Some butts are smooth as a baby’s
Some butts can scour a pot
Some butts are petit
Some butts are gros
Some butts are cool as cucumbers
Some butts warm your bed
Some butts roar like rockets
Some butts purr like kittens
Some butts are worth a million bucks
Some butts smell like socks
Some butts are a joke
Some butts are blown up with smoke
Some butts litter the sidewalks
Some butts become president

Inspired by A Number One Bites the Dust as well as the 2024 Presidential Debates. Compiled statues illustration by Fred Ni.

A Number One Bites the Dust

It finally happened. The robots took over military defense and accidentally launched nuclear weapons. A faulty chip failed to correct for colour-blindness and the robots pressed the red button instead of green. Three million years later, the new civilization arrived from another multi-verse, hoping to decipher what had destroyed planet earth. They unearthed a large blue foam replica of what looked like a hand with an enormous index digit. They surmised that this was a rudimentary proctology-type of equipment gone wrong resulting in the release of inordinate amounts of methane into the atmosphere which spontaneously combusted. Only the donkeys survived.

Inspired by Just So and Queen. Image from eBay.

Just So

“I don’t get it,” said Nick. “What the fuck just happened? Why would anyone do something like that?”

     “I don’t know,” said Atalanta. “It’s Jason. It’s just the way he is, I guess.”

     “So, you’re telling me I should’ve seen it coming?”

     “Didn’t your mother ever tell you about leopards and their spots?”

     “But how does someone even get that way?”

     “Who knows, but maybe you’ve something there—you know, like all those stories they used to tell us in kindergarten: How the Camel Got his Hump; How the Giraffe Got his Neck; . . . ”

     “Like, How the Ass Got his Hole?”

Inspired by Well, that levy went dry. Image by Microsoft Copilot.

Well, that levy went dry.

Earlier this week I contemplated penning a humour piece. At first, after dinner and half a bottle of wine, it sounded edgy and hilarious, and I hit the hay dreaming up puffy bits to stretch it out into a decent story. But as daylight chafed, it didn't fly and ran a real risk of offending. I won't elaborate on the content or for whom I wrote it, but the punch line involved Las Vegas, a vibrator and the full recitation of American Pie.
     “Why would you even WRITE THAT?” Rich said, appalled. True to form, it landed foul on the grass.

Inspired by Dance with Me. Don McLean’s suggestive thumb from the cover of American Pie. United Artists, 1971.

Courage

Jan Karski was an agent of the Polish underground during the Second World War. He infiltrated the Warsaw Ghetto to document conditions, disguised himself as a guard to investigate a concentration camp, was captured and tortured by the Gestapo. He escaped and, not once but three times, travelled across occupied Europe to France and Britain with details of Nazi atrocities in Poland. The detailed reports he carried to the Allies were dismissed. No one could believe the scale of the Nazi death machine.

      Touching his statue’s arm, rubbed shiny by countless hands, I wondered: would I have had such courage?

Inspired by Dance with Me, and death-defying courage. Photo of the statue of Jan Karski in Kazimierz, the old Jewish district of Krakow, by Ron Thompson.

Dance with Me

Dance with me. You pull him to his feet.

He resists. Can’t. My boss is on my ass. I have 600 new emails in my inbox. The air is full of smoke. The news is full of war. I woke up with this pain that won’t go away no matter what I do. There’s so much crap around—everywhere I look. I don’t see the point anymore—of any of it—of life. Tell me, tell me, what’s the point?

This, you say, this is the point. A fast song comes on the radio and you pull him up.

Inspired by In his Chamber of Lust and Love. Image of a late 18-century print “Il Ballo” by Giuseppe Piatolli from the the Uffizi Gallery collections.

In His Chamber of Lust and Love

Jesus Jesus lying in the night
said, “Hold me tight, hold me tight.”
In his chamber of lust and love
a thousand candles whispered (yes) and burned
It was warm and bright
and she held him tight (yes) so tight
He closed his eyes and it was still so bright
All he felt was brightness, lightness, life
There was a breath against his breath
(yes)
There was a heart against his heart
(yes)
Burning and bright it was
The meaning of life it was
flowing through her blood to his;
hunger it was
flowing through her body to his
(yes)


Inspired by Angel of Harlem. Painting is The Kiss by Gustav Klimt.

Angel of Harlem

She hovers under the archway, Jesus keeping her company from his Cross. Fed by the neighbours like a starving stray dog, her face is reddened by the sharp winds of Winter and the scorching Summer sun. 

It’s easier to avert one’s gaze—objectify her in the garden of the religious paraphernalia. But she will look directly into you if you let her; a stoic living statue with piercing eyes.

Once a child playing and dreaming of her grown-up life, she’s shrinking day by day now. She’s soon to exit this world like we all will, alone and into the unknown. 

Inspired by In Local News and U2.  Image based on a photo by Patrick Asselin.

In Local News

Remember that clock radio next to your bed, and the half-awake news every morning? Especially the local stuff, like the story of the flasher, who for the past three years had been prowling the paths of High Park?

     A group of west-end women had given up on the police and gone to the press. It was the same guy, they knew, because of his particular routine of hiding in the bushes and whistling a birdsong to get their attention. They put up posters declaring “We know who you are and what you look like.”

     They called him the Whistling Pervert.

But in that funny-not-funny moment, we also learned that the guy had been getting more brazen, and that some women had talked about arming themselves.

     This and some casual threats of vigilante justice was all that it took—after years of complaints, and what the police had dared call an “intensive investigation”—to get them to actually start beating the bushes and maybe dress up some female constables to flush the guy out.

     And so it was, just one week later, that Toronto awoke to the news that the cops had arrested not one, not two, but four whistling perverts.

Inspired by The Good Doctor. Photo by the author.