when he moved the box across the carpet his finger was caught underneath. the moment he slid it he could feel a burning sensation.

after he was done moving the box he examined his finger. it wasn't yet bleeding, but there was a large piece of skin missing from the middle finger of his left hand. a few moments later it began to bleed. there was no pain associated with the wound, however.

the remainder of the day he kept glancing at the dried blood and wondered if it would leave a scar. in some ways he hoped it would. that way he would have a reminder.

[03/31/03]

as he sat on the bus seat he heard the crinkle of paper. he reached under his rear and pulled out a small scrap of brown paper, apparently torn from a grocery bag.

"make sense of yourself, then destroy the information."

he folded the note in half briskly, before anyone else saw it, and stuffed it in his pocket.

[03/30/03]

a mannequin, frozen, staring at herself in the train's window. strong scent of hairspray, perfume, and cosmetics. concealed face, construction of a new identity.

maintaining. narcissus on the train, more than willing to fall into the pond of her own reflection.

she reapplies her lipstick and moves a pocket mirror around to verify her blush. this is a game, a ruse she is eager to enact.

[03/30/03]

she stops and examines the discount purses on her lunch break.

her white, discoloured shirt and black, ill-fitting pants are not flattering. she wants a new wardrobe, but, like the other employees, knows she cannot afford the luxury.

the item she considers does not suit her, though with her staff discount she would save considerably on her purchase.

[03/30/03]

it's a windy day for the garbage men. broken bags' contents strewn down streets, across lawns.

diapers, bloodied sanitary napkins, semen spilling from condoms. the detritus of daily life.

a slurry of rain water and dog shit splash the garbage man as he empties the can's contents into the back of the truck. he swears, kicks the garbage can onto the lawn, and yells at the driver to move on.

[03/30/03]

his father stopped the car, rolled down the window, and beckoned him to get in.

none of them had ever had a friend move away before. what protocols were they to enact? he reached out to shake his hand. they were too old for hugs, he thought, and the other boys eagerly reached out to follow his lead.

watching the car drive away, he felt satisfied at their ending. he was glad to have found the appropriate social interaction at the crucial moment, something entirely new to him.

[03/30/03]

against all probabilities. but that wasn't the worst of it.

when he came at me like that i wasn't sure what to expect. i panicked.

i'll never absolve myself of this now.

[03/27/03]

"that's a nice green shirt"

i looked at her with uncertainty. as the past had shown, it was impossible to gauge her intentions. she would often try to surprise people with pointless flattery.

later in the day she gave me a dirty glance for no apparent reason.

[03/27/03]

the railway engine creeps into the city with dozens of containers in tow, bound for a central shipping yard.

one of the cars is filled with explosives. detonation time determined as noon.

the group has been planning this catastrophe for years. it is neither ideologically or politically motivated. it is an exhibition of the art of chaos.

[03/21/03]

baby boy in a smock. laughing mother playing hand-clap games. sitting on a jacket laid out on the floor of the ferry.

the worker, a young woman, enters the room with a vacuum cleaner and extension cord. sets the vacuum down beside the mother and child. walks to the adjoining room and plugs the cord in. a wall of us sitting, watching, anticipating deafening noise.

vibrations, combined with a crunching sound as the ferry grinds against rocks, settling up to its dock point. the child is carried off to the car deck, continuing to gurgle and laugh.

[03/19/03]

the coin operated massage chairs won't shut up, demanding payment, the old couple refusing to insert coins or move. he curses at no one in particular while she nervously knits.

outside, the ocean ripples on the verge of whitecaps. intersecting mounds of water, countless momentary landscapes, microcosms of tumult.

currents form patterns, smooth smears across the ocean's surface. a blue plastic container interrupts the image.

[03/18/03]

"who knows what we are, broken with rage and humiliation"

"there are no justifications that suffice"

"yet you and i stand here, troubled, but still capable of carrying on"

[03/17/03]

wind, excited and howling around the structure. inside, he could hear it scream between the joints of the old window.

there was work to be done outside, within the punches of air, though he couldn't rouse himself from the half-broken chair. hands folded, as though in prayer, he stared at the table.

it was another day where he would have to push his limbs into action with force. a voice, rumbling somewhere behind his thoughts and memories began to yell at him to get up.

[03/17/03]

she's so full of damage. filled to internal corruption from trite comfort.

the woman she's talking to can hardly utter a word without being cut off. the damage has succeeded in passing itself off as knowledge, and now she believes that she understands the filaments of humanity.

accepting her own word as gospel, she's temporarily healed the damage's points of entry.

[03/14/03]

she lifts a shard and gazes into it. when she drops the bit of reflective surface it crashes amongst the other fragments scattered on the floor.

a moment earlier she shattered the mirror as she sat before it brushing her hair. the mirror had been judging her, she felt, so she had struck it with the head of the hairbrush.

she stood, surrounded by jagged edges, stunned at her impulse, unsure as to what she should do next.

[03/12/03]

the shopping cart lifts up onto two wheels turning the corner, entering the mouth of yet another aisle of food.

sunday morning. dehydration. exhaustion. mild irritation. growing into aggression. knuckles tighten across the handle of the cart. grinding teeth, muttering "come on and move you fuck" quietly.

rolls the cart forward and backward in sharp jolts. no one senses his frustration and mounting hostility. all he wants at this moment is to be home.

instead of patiently waiting for the consumer blocking his path to move, he considers ramming his half-filled cart into theirs. full speed. clang of metal. scream of broken glass. he breathes. relaxes his grip on the cart. turns and walks out of the store.

[03/12/03]

"terminal illness is a condition of being," he said.

it was true. he was dying. but he had always been dying, he knew. the difference now was that it was a certainty he would die sooner due to the cancerous growth in his stomach.

when he pressed on the side of his abdomen he thought he could feel the lump beneath the bloated mass. he had once watched his body get strong and fit, but now he could only ponder its degeneration.

[03/10/03]

waiting and remembering. mind slipping from scene to scene, shifting through memories, shuffling faces.

she sat at the window. watching. her days occupied by the past. occasionally, while eating dinner in the dining hall with the others, she would become bitter. suddenly stricken with the foul taste of age and abandonment.

every second sunday her son would come to visit. sometimes his wife or one or two of their children would come along. the rest of the week was spent in years gone by, and she didn't mind this for the most part. she had friends back there she liked to visit.

[03/10/03]

the sign is new. he built it last week to replace the old one he had been using for years. it finally wore out from and time and use.

jesus saves, it informed.

he got the idea, a flash of inspiration, while he was forty and unemployed. it began as an act of penance, atonement for a lifetime of sin. soon people give him money and praise, two things he had been a stranger to previously.

years passed and he kept on, holding his sign all day. same place. sometimes he remembered the past and the freedom of doing whatever he wanted whenever he felt like it. now he had a sign.

[03/09/03]

smoking, he stood in the doorway of his shop. he hadn't washed his hair in several days, and smoked no less than a pack of cigarettes a day. he considered himself bohemian, though he was several decades late for the fashion he was imitating.

still, he found no lack of impressionable minds that were attracted to him. after the store closed several of these acquaintances would stay around and fill the basement with thick smoke.

some of them would form a loose group of friends. shortly thereafter, however, the group would dissipate, for reasons unclear. the bohemian storekeep would continue to scrape by each month. two and half years later his store would close and he would disappear. some of the original group, having met each other by coincidence, shared rumours. some thought he went to mexico to pursue his obsession with peyote and mysticism, while others suspected he fled to france where it was thought he had a wealthy aunt.

[03/08/03]

no one was injured. the earthquake shook his desk. the building was not damaged. everyone in the city paused for a moment. a bridge collapsed. four cars were crushed. the weather forecast wrongly indicated rain in the late afternoon. certain people sleeping at the time did not notice the event whatsoever.

for weeks after a wave of paranoia filled people. everyday tasks began to overwhelm them. their world was filled with uncertainty.

he found himself placing his hands on his desk to steady himself. he moved his trash can out from under his desk in case he had to duck under it. sleep did not coming easy anymore.

[03/06/03]

a lack of concern as she crossed the road in the path of oncoming traffic. she knew she would barely avoid being hit. she also knew there was a slight chance that someone wouldn't be paying attention and would drive their car straight into her. this is what she hoped for, sometimes, though she would never admit it.

her dress was torn, the faded flower design flapping wildly in the breeze. it wasn't yet summer. still, optimism was in the forefront of her mind today.

[03/05/03]

the message never came. she waited. two days passed. she grew hungry and impatient. she couldn't sleep. the room was cramped and dark. there was a distinct, unpleasant odour. she had to urinate down a drain hole.

the messenger bumped his head while showering. he slipped and fell forward, banging his skull against the rim of the toilet. he lived alone, and the body was found when he didn't pay the next month's rent.

she waited. eventually she left. later she was found under a bridge, dead from exposure.

[03/04/03]

there was a lull in the conversation. they both wanted to leave but couldn't. their manager wouldn't be back in the room for another seven minutes.

he smiled. she smiled. she looked out the window. he looked at the wall.

the manager didn't arrive for eighteen minutes. by that time they were both exhausted from avoidance.

[03/02/03]