implied prophecy

She taps him on the shoulder with her dirty fingertips and holds out a tin can jingling with change. "Be careful," she croaks. "The edge of the earth is a dangerous place to be."

The young man's laughter is mocking. "The earth is round."

She blinks, the wrinkles on her nose pronounced. "But you're standing there."

"Where?"

"The edge," she replies. "The edge of the earth."

He chuckles. "There's no such thing, Lady." He extracts a clean five dollar bill and stuffs it into her can.

Two days later, he cocks a Glock to his own temple, her warning forgotten.

at which degree

The fire truck. He hadn't been expecting that.

Then again, he hadn't been expecting the fire either, and that's what usually precedes the fire truck.

"What happened, sir?"

"The damn fuse box blew," he grumbles, shooting nasty looks at the crowd that had gathered.

The fireman arches an eyebrow. "Fuse boxes don't blow, sir."

"What are you, the semantics police?" he spits, grimacing. "A fuse, alright? I blew a goddamn fuse."

Jesus Christ.

The next day, he walks to the front of the classroom, introduces himself as co-chair of the engineering department and says, "Welcome to Microelectronic Devices and Circuits."

forever and a die

"We'll be best bestest friends forever, okay?" the brunette with short braids says, eyes wide in seriousness.

The blonde nods, her wispy bangs swishing across her forehead. "I'm gonna call you every day, and write."

"Me too," the brunette agrees, meaning each word more than she's ever meant anything.

But eight-year-olds rarely have an understanding of long-distance phone bills, nor do they realize how the postal service operates. No notion of the importance of memory, either, so every day turns into every week, every month, ever...

Ten years later, Alexis finds Emily at the corner of Ste. Catherine and Peel.

broken f(am i?)ly

He departs before the sun peeks above the horizon and returns long after the darkness has shrouded the city in a veil of mystery. Routine.

Tonight, something changes, and his hand catches on his bedroom doorknob. He can hear his wife's soft snores on the other side. Resentment.

Lethargic, he tiptoes around, finds his son's door. His push elicits a creak; he holds his breath, feels the waste gas burning his lungs. Recklessness.

But the baby is a deep sleeper (inherited that trait from his mother, certainly), doesn't even stir.

One last look, and the man disappears into the night.

vicious cycle

She doesn't foster relationships with other people, doesn't think that human interaction is crucial to development. Her teachers consistently question her behavior, debate about nature and nurture and a bunch of psychological bullshit that grates on her ears.

There's no explanation, she wants to tell them, and no amount of time spent in a cubicle in the hospital's psych ward is ever going to change that. But she doesn't, because in a way, she thirsts for attention, hungers for endless questions about her mental state, her hidden emotions, her life. She grows dependent, then insane.

Whatever. Normal is overrated, anyway.

time versus talent

His failed marriage has left him with just enough money to purchase a typewriter, so he does.

His five hundred square feet studio apartment barely has room for the filing cabinet that his grandfather had left him, but it's his lifeline.

Inside, he stashes the breathings of his heart. (William Wordsworth would be pleased.)

But his writing is like holes punched onto carbon paper: useless, archaic. The more he stores, the less meaningful the content. He runs circles.

Hope keeps him at the brink of destruction. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks.

Maybe tomorrow will deliver the muse for his eventual masterpiece.

public justice

Her colleague hands her a manila envelope, asks her if she can process the blood samples. He's gone before she has a chance to reply.

"You've been here for three years," she mumbles to herself. "You can do this."

She opens the envelope and allows the contents to spill out onto the table. Slowly, meticulously, she arranges the samples into tiny test tubes. She stares at the rack. She can't come up with the name of one compound.

She realizes that she should've paid more attention in biology class, instead of chatting up the cute foreign exchange student from Germany.