Category: Fiction

Often, on house calls, the clients meet my Dad with lemonade or tea, occasionally fresh milk. As we pull off the highway and into Uncle Harry's drive this afternoon, I watch the long, empty porch and its lonely swing pass by. Summers, we played with my cousin, Brett, here on the farm, my brother and me. We'd fish the pond. I tried fishing last summer with Dad, but he only made it an hour until the heat made him dizzy. Spells of “vertigo,” he called it, but not an inner ear thing, something with his heart. That Kareem Abdul-Jabbar disease. I can never remember the name. 

Look on the bright side. You can always come back and burn the place down, Pierre thought, slowly removing his framed degree from the wall.

"Too many eyes", Edward thinks. The tingling areas on his skin grow hotter as he navigates the bustling sidewalk. He makes an about-face and, parting the crowd with his arms, hurries back toward his apartment building...

Inside the sterile donor centre, I queasily thumb through a copy of "The Northern Miner", as a half quart of blood oozes from a vein.

I try to do my part, whenever I’m able. There’s a sense of obligation, when Jacob is below.

She sat in a high-back blue chair, an opened book in her lap, one leg pulled up under the other, her lower lip pushed out in thought. It appeared as through she was looking out the window beyond anything she could see.