One story is currently under revising. But, here goes.
Something Fresh?
The smell of deli meet fills the
noses of any curious grocery shopper. One could only imagine the brightly
light, fancy stainless steel deli counter would be a prized selling point. A
man stands dressed a khaki coloured uniform his back bent over the counter his
eyes focused completely on the machine in front of him. The stainless steel
items shine like diamonds under the huge oversized lights above. The man places
his hand on the meat slicer in front of him, his hand covered in calluses and
cuts, his knuckles white as he slides the blade across the lump of ham. As he
slices the meat folds into a pile and customers turn their heads at the smell.
The man wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform. A small sigh escapes
his chapped lips. A tall man with a pair of green knee-length shorts and a grey
shirt approaches the deli department. His hair in an awkward comb over and a
deep authoritative voice signals for the deli clerk. The deli clerk leaves his
station, looks at the man, and says “something fresh today, sir?” a smile
stretches across his tired face
Washing
It Away
A large grey cloud starts to
approach overhead. The trees sway as if dancing to a soft melody. A bright
flash covers the sky. Seconds later, a loud boom follows like horses hooves
trampling the sky.
Two young Asian men run out of their
apartment building. One wearing striped multi-coloured pants with a brown polo
shirt. The other with a black shirt, its sleeves rolled up about quarter
length. His were jeans dark wash, almost black with white stitching on the
pockets. As they turn to look up at the sky, their eyes light up just as the
skies minutes before. One of the boys has a curious look on his face as a
crease forms between his thick, un-plucked eyebrows. His friend’s smile
stretched across his face, his eyes sparkling with the idea of something so
amazing.
They pull out their next generation
smart phones; the next one larger than the first. Sitting next to a large row
of cars in the parking lot, they create flashes of their own as they take
pictures of themselves in the storm. A fury of constant flashes of lighting and
thunder roll as their excitement is washed of their faces in mere seconds as a
gush of rain begin to cover everything, including them.
You Don’t Stand A Chance
The tall but small featured woman
stands hovering over the stove. Her hair bouncing with the light shifts she
makes across the kitchen floor. A small creek moans out as she moves. She
un-wraps the air tight package of blood red meat, and slaps them onto the
frying pan covered in cooking oil, and golden shimmer reflects of the pan onto
her face, hunger filling her face. Adding a mixture of finely sliced garlic,
tear invoking oozing onions, and spices, she turns on the burner, and a sizzle
so faint it could only be heard to someone paying attention. She shuffles her
feet across the floor. She pulls out bottles of bright red ketchup, and yellow
mustard, and buns of bread. She shifts her mouth, noticing the wetness inside
as her taste buds ache. These flat shriveled up pieces of meat stand not chance
against her bright white teeth.
Human Sexuality
A
tall Russian woman stands in a room of crowed teenagers. Their ears peeled for
the being statements about the topic of Human Sexuality. As if they do not know
already. A large grey podium blends in the wall behind it, if not for the
professor bent over a stack of papers, would be unrecognizable. Students grow
restless awaiting her roll call. Her short curly white hair and ribbons of grey
within it bounces up as she starts calling students names. Her accent as thick
as cake batter struggles to pronounce the Canadian names. As she comes upon a
name there is suddenly a furrow in her brow, she moves her lips as if
practicing before saying it aloud. It slips out of her mouth. She smiles, as
the student corrections and moves on. The names flow on like a sea of school
fish, blending in, turning into muffled words by other students. The energetic
professor shoots up and says in a high pitched voice, “Letz talk about the
sex!” The room fell silent.
Rain
The air feels damp. The doors swing open wide to the sound
of raindrops hitting the ground like pin needles. My hands fumble trying to
open the umbrella to protect myself from the shower of water. Feeling like an
ant under fire, I pursue the path towards home. My feet are sore, and shining
with the drops of rain. They are the temperature of death. Waterfalls of rain
cascade down the sidewalks. My home is in sight. And, suddenly, I cannot hear
the speeding of cars, the raining hit my blood red umbrella, the voices around
me, for I know warmth awaits me on the comforts on my vintage flower love seat.
Jinglers - Outdated
The
place is hidden to the back. The door creeks open as if it had not been greased
in years. A woman with wire blonde hair stood with a sea of clothes surrounding
her. Her sweater allowed her to blend in among the racks of used clothes. If
not for the ribbons of grey hair she would have been missed all together. A
young blonde hair dashes from place to place. She is watched by the mid-forties
couple browsing at the back. The atmosphere at Jingles is much like the
clothes, used and out-dated.
Class Question Period
A short,
plump woman with fluorescent white hair sits at the end of a row red velvet
seats. She rips out her coil note book that has pages torn from it, and the
cover bent from shoving it into her backpack. She pulls out a pen that flies
apart at her intense grasp. And she waits, with her pink tinted prescription
glass, for the professor to begin. As the professors monotone voice begins to
explain the varying complications that is the Canadian Constitution, an arm
raises from the end of the red line. The professors’ eyes quickly swing away
from the white haired lady and he continues to mumble the workings of Section
92 of the Constitution. He barely finishes his sentence, and a cracked voice
struggles to put force behind her voice, to no surprise her voice picks up. She
directs her question, and has an authority to her voice that commands an answer,
not matter how many times she repeats the same question. The professor, lets a
sigh, and a brief pause, go before he addresses the woman, she sparks back with
another question. The cycle continues for the remaining hour and eighteen
minutes.
Homeward Bound
The air
is crisp. The temperature requires the winter attire. Fall recedes into the
past, and winter chills us to bone. A tall, brown haired girl bundled up in her
parka and homemade knitted hat rounds the corner of Prospect Street. Her nose
is as red as the stop light above her head. The headlights of cars make the line
go on forever. People bundled up in their heated vehicles, showing no
compassion for the girl who resembles Rudolf. Despite the cold, she soldiers
on. Homeward bound.
Final Journal of my career!
The phone in
front of me lights up, as it does so often. It’s my best friend. “Wanna come
see a waterful?” My eyes widen. “Yep, come get me.” A body sits at the steering
wheel, hands covered by black driving gloves. His black and green toque covers
his head. The girl beside him, he long blond hair flows from her elastic. Her
jacket is a dark green. I bounce into the back seat and head for the most
scenic drive to a place I have never been. The wind hits our faces as we leave
car. The rocks ahead look step, but a quick glance to each other. And we know.
The incline is steep, but welcoming, trees on either side, small tall, some
large and burly, some average but lovely, kind of like passing people. In the
distance you can hear the swish, and crash of water. The scene creates a flip
in my stomach. Looking up the water falls with great power and authority. Only
to be frozen in the end by nature. Among the greatest forces of nature; there
stand three.
Credit to Nathalie Sturgeon ©
St. Thomas University
St. Thomas University
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