mckenzington

     Her great-grandparents lived in a cottage, in the north, but not terribly far north - a small, plain abode nestled between the dense forest, a quaint garden of lilies, tulips, and hydrangeas, and the lake. Often they drove out, in late summer, and when they arrived the girl would head immediately for the lake, nearly flinging her shoes off and tiptoeing into the dark, tepid water, careful not to disturb any minnows. It was the minnows that she especially liked and which she would catch and and pour into a bucket only to later dump them clumsily into the lake. When the minnows were in hiding and the bumblebees cared not to hover lackadaisically about the tulips, she would be listlessly wandering inside the cottage. Sometimes, the girl would sit cross-legged on the navy blue armchair, her feet still rough and cold from the lake water, and watch her great grandmother solve a crossword puzzle. Perhaps it was the boredom, or perhaps it was the slow, elegant way with which her grandmoth

There is something inherently fervent about French people. Parisians, especially. There is an urgency in their step, knitted brows, sharp tongues. Beautiful words spill like warm water from their mouths, quickly, carelessly, seductively, as if they are utterly and completely unaware of how saccharine their voice is to my ears. Les mots ne peuvent pas la décrire. Not English ones, at least. The soft clinking of cutlery, like the sounds that tiny stars would make; the hazy, sooty smell of cigarettes brushing the tip of your nose. I was in love with the vague concept of France until I had an affair with Paris. I stood for hours in the Orangerie. There was a painting by Monet called "Argenteuil" that I remember staring at for a good ten minutes. It was a beautiful impressionist piece, with a gold, antique, very French frame. A small painting. Capable of being looked over, dismissed; eyes carried over it but the feet of passerbys kept moving. The subject is boats (Boats. You lau

The boards are terribly brittle. His breathing is heavy and his hands are clammy and cold; shut tight like a clam. There's no pearl in there. The sky is a rich, heavy dark blue, the kind of sky people drink wine under, and the image of a demure woman leaning her hip against a kitchen counter dances across his mind and then dissipates. The boards groan and sigh under his weight but he feels strangely sedated. To look up, however, would be obscene, an almost instant reveal, a head peeking from a slit in the curtain before a big show. So instead he looks down at the planks as he nimbly hops from one to the next across the abandoned building, partially exposed every few seconds by the large windows. He notices that the planks are all the same dull maroon colour, like dried blood that was ineffectually scrubbed out of a garment and left to become a permanent blemish. He feels like this colour. His legs are starting to hurt and the air cuts his lungs, but a small part of his brain tells

Who is it that winks in soft daylight here? If I were but a shell of myself you; Of all would turn away and disappear For all is changed save my skin and its hue  So wherefore, I ask, is your laugh so strange? These lines so unfamiliar and new Are etched into your porcelain skin; changed Not thy appearance, but thy moral view Milky white is your treachery and though Your sweet speech is still novelty to me It is cold, near hated, and lost its glow And I know not the person that I see.     What appeared to be a look of true pain    Was to me indifference; cold before rain

I'm in a laundromat. When I was 9 years old, I always went to a laundromat - I lived in an old apartment, how else was I supposed to wash my clothes? It was an occasion nevertheless; we went, (usually in the evening, when the sky was light enough so that you could see in the distance if you squinted, but dark so that people's faces were obscured save for the orange glow on half of their skin - or at least that's how I remember it) loading into the car the plastic white and blue baskets filled with white socks turned brown on the soles and sweaters camouflaged in thin dog hairs. The smell is the same. The smell of lavender fabric softener that was strangely far from lavender-smelling, lemon-scented floor cleaner, and a faint tinny smell, like sterling silver or metal machinery. I think of the different ways different people make decisions. Some are calculated, some logical, some prepare and deliberate so intensely that the actual deciding of the matter is no longer importan

This elevator has twenty-three buttons that shine with an almost bioluminescent glow. Twenty-three buttons and twenty-three floors with people busying themselves in their apartments in this very moment. Like bees in a beehive; like ants in an anthill. The buttons are smooth, small, cold to the touch. Yes, the carpet is green and blue and beige with little diamonds lined up in a never-ending pattern of stars. Yes, the mirror is there, too big, making my head look tiny and deflated. Yes, the emergency stop button and the handrails are there (safety first). I can hear the elevator groaning as it crawls up the shaft, and if I close my eyes I can imagine the cogs and wheels and various other mechanisms stirring together, working perfectly, with stability, with an almost artificial beauty. But I can't shake this feeling, the feeling that something is wrong. Like something is missing. Doors, perhaps? he says.