Coercion

Hanging out in the high penthouse apartment of a skyscraper, I and my colleagues found ourselves confronted by an international crime lord who threatened to annihilate thousands of people if we did not cooperate. The villain’s henchmen blocked the exits and we were told to kidnap our friends and send their body parts to their family for money if we wanted to save the world. Our first thoughts were of how to get out of this situation, but in the meantime we had to play along. I had a dear friend (a musician) confined in a corner of the penthouse, so it was up to me to do the unthinkable among us. My friend knew the stakes and had resigned himself to his fate, simply asking to hold something in his mouth while I cut off his finger so that he did not bit his tongue. I offered him a drumstick but he declined saying he preferred to use the soft cloth he’d found. I held my large X-acto knife at his wrist, preparing to cut off his hand. I drew blood but couldn’t go any further. “I can’t do this,” I said and let him go.

My colleagues and I remained trapped, only now I’d exposed my unwillingness to bend to the villain’s coercion. He would have no further use for me and my life was now in danger. My colleagues accepted that they would have to throw their own friends off the roof instead, unless we escaped. I set my mind to getting us all out while remaining on guard for the call to end my life.

Investigating a Serial Killer

I worked on notes for a screenplay, compiling old newspaper clippings that spanned several years, following the deeds of a serial killer. As I scanned the old stories I noticed a pattern develop, implying the killer had worked out of the same warehouse location I had worked in once.

I jumped back in time to when I worked at the warehouse, when it had been converted to film studios. I knew that the killer was here, and that at this point no one had even made the connection between the killings. I knew that the killer came from Shrewsbury, but had lived in Toronto for a time.

I told one of the men who worked in the warehouse about the existence of the serial killer, before remembering that any one of the people around me could actually be the killer. Now I had to escape because the killer would learn that I knew what he was doing, even if I hadn’t figured out who he was yet.

Plasticine Gum

I found myself searching for a new apartment in this quaint hillside village but the rent at the best I found was too expensive and besides, I already had a much nicer place to live.

While there I worked on an elaborate art project involving different forms of media in many parts—paint, sculpture, diorama and journal. I forgot to eat, being too immersed in painting a sculptural section of blue trees on a hill. Anyway I knew I had no food.

Eventually I took a break, walking up the steep narrow streets of the village, following the sounds of a street festival, but discovering only food shops with uninteresting wares or non-vegetarian items. I returned home hungry to find that my art project had become collaborative in my absence. Another girl showed me a bunch of pretty Plasticine figures that she had contributed. The adorable intricate human characters displayed beautiful craftsmanship. I decided to accept the collaborative efforts, so long as everyone was clear that the project remained mine.

I went back to painting the treed hill sculpture, noticing myself chewing on gum but not remembering putting any gum in my mouth. I realized that the gum was actually one of the girl’s lovely Plasticine figures. I spit it out, horrified, pulling apart the separate colour chunks and trying to reconstitute her work. The damage was minimal. I liked the detailed carving the girl had used in her figurines and began working on some new sculptures, inspired by her work. Again, I chewed on a sweet gummy morsel. No—I chewed on the piece I’d been working on for hours! I spat it out and tried to ply apart the colour sections but I’d chewed on them too long. I rescued what I could. The girl returned, sad that I had destroyed some of her beautiful and time-consuming work. She thought it funny that I believed the Plasticine to be chewing gum, but determined to help prevent future chewing. Moments later my jaw gesticulated, my saliva melting the crystalline blobs in my mouth as my tongue savoured the tangy sweet flavours. How was it possible? I had no recollection of putting anything in my mouth. And how could I continue my project if I kept sabotaging myself by consuming my work?

A Perfect House

Next to my parents’ old house in an expensive neighbourhood, heavy scaffolding covered a small row of houses. Construction workers climbed up and down, in and out, making noise that filtered through the neighbourhood. The middle house caught my eye—a skinny Tudor-style tower that would make a perfect sized home for me. I doubted I could afford it, given the upscale neighbourhood and my current lack of employment, but I decided to check it out. Through the scaffolding I could see three distinct floors, each containing one room. A three room house would fit me well. I watched for the sale sign to go up. When it appeared, I grabbed my phone and ran to call the number. There was no phone number on the sign, only a note saying the agent would be back shortly.

I stood in front of the house in the fading light of day. The construction workers had finished, leaving the house empty. I walked up to the door and found it unlocked. I crept in to see what the place was like on the inside.

The ground floor I entered on contained the kitchen and dining rooms. Someone had left their dinner on the stove. I finished cooking the bacon, ate a couple of pieces (despite being a vegetarian), and gave the rest to my boyfriend who stood at the other end of the counter. A ladder extended from the galley kitchen up to the floor above. I climbed the ladder to a room with a cathedral ceiling that capped the house. My floor count had been incorrect. Surely I could afford a tower house with only two floors connected by a ladder? I remembered what neighbourhood we were in.

The family who lived in the house returned to find me cooking in their kitchen and making myself at home. The agent accompanied them, and I distracted the family from the fact I’d broken in by jumping into conversation about purchasing. The father, an architect who had designed the renovation, talked to me about the design details. I pictured my life in the house, and saw it all materialize in full colour—my bedroom on the top floor with the cathedral ceiling, my corner studio, relaxing with the boyfriend in the lounge, entertaining my friends with delicious servings of food from the galley kitchen in the open concept main room…

I enjoyed learning the details of the house and imagining my perfect life within it. The agent told me the listing price: $900,000. That was way beyond my means, and ridiculously over-priced for two or three rooms stacked on top of each other and connected by a ladder. Stupid fancy neighbourhood. Knowing I could never afford the house, I thanked the agent and the family and left.

Living Photographs

Searching for photographs for a submission—an article, an assignment—the cause varied. A friend who is now an architecture professor advised me to look through historical archives, to compare original buildings with the changes time imposed. She showed me an example: a silver print of a stone roller coaster, rotating out from the face of a Victorian clock tower, stretching towards the camera lens like the interior walls of a sea shell.

I returned my focus to the black and white shot I had of the old city hall, a view through a vine-clad stone arch towards an open square adjacent to the building. I began to write on the photograph. I giggled as the letters came to life as pigeons, flying across the silver emulsion in perfect unison.

Time

On the way home from Quebec to Ontario I picked up my sister in Montreal. I drove along highway 7 when we left, but after a while I had a feeling that I might be headed in the wrong direction. Night time made any landmarks difficult to see, so I pulled over into a gas station to have a look at the map. I regretted not borrowing the gps for the drive, especially after discovering that I had been driving in the strong direction along the north shore. Well, at least my sister couldn’t chastise me for my poor navigation, being asleep in the back of the car.

We hadn’t driven too far out of the way, but the thought of turning around and driving through the night convinced me to book a room at the gas station motel. I flipped through the music stations on the motel TV until I found a station playing all 80’s New Wave tunes. The TV screen displayed still graphics of the music playlist in bright digital colours of pink, green, and blue, rather than playing any music videos. I got bored and went for a walk through the motel parking lot.

Word got out that Queen Elizabeth had retired from regency and returned to civilian life. She apparently had no idea how to live as everything had always been done for her, so she spent excessive amounts of her own money keeping up a facsimile of her royal lifestyle. I came across the queen wandering around in the motel parking lot, wondering what to do with herself. She wore a cream-coloured diamond-encrusted channel suit. The large chunk of diamond on her pill-box hat glinted in the lights from above.

David Bowie’s song “Time” began playing in my head. I returned to my motel room to look for the album and play it for the queen. As I rifled through my records I began thinking about how once I’d found the album I’d have to play it on my turntable, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dropped a needle on a record. The queen and the daughter/granddaughter accompanying her followed me into my room to admire my vinyl collection. I thought she might enjoy the 80’s Brit Pop still playing on the television.

I remembered that my sister was still asleep in the back of my car so I went out to find her, the Bowie song still playing in my head.

The Wind

I am holed up in a mansion with a handful of unrelated people. We arrived following a failed bus trip to an empty summer camp where we were supposed to be working. A poor map resulted in us becoming completely lost and thus the bus became a dilapidated mansion.

The boarded-up windows blocked the light from the outside, and the closed, dusty curtains hid whatever cracks of light managed to get through the shutters. The air inside the mansion hung heavy and ominous. The interior lighting did little to brighten the shadows.

I went to one of the kitchen windows, pulled back the curtains and pushed open the shutters. The winds we had been attempting to protect ourselves from had changed direction. The air felt clear, positive. I called everyone to look.

Unlike the others, I dared go outside to breathe the fresh air, wandering a short distance from the house into the lush green garden. But I knew I shouldn’t wander too far, just in case. I turned around to look back at the house in time to see the mother throw herself into the pond. My eyes followed the arc of her dive, and watched her sink slowly, her long skirt dragging her down into the murky green water until only her bare feet were visible. Her handmaid and closest friend stood on the shore weeping. All the others, including the husband, stood on shore, sad but immobile. No one went in after her. I didn’t understand why. Maybe they couldn’t swim?

I dove in after the barely visible feet which were fading fast in the murky green water. The maid followed my lead and jumped in as well but her attempted rescue seemed futile. Saving the mother was up to me. I reached out blindly at the feet, hoping to catch hold of them despite my closed eyes. My hands felt the ankles and I grabbed on tight.

I found the mother surprisingly easy to lift to the surface. I think she floated up naturally. I swam to her from the point where I surfaced, my long-ago first aid lessons reminding me how to grip a drowning victim under the arms and from behind. I swam with her to shore as she sputtered, still alive.