Saint Candice

Huff, huff, huff, huff. Candice ran as fast as she could toward a TTC bus approaching a shelter in the distance. She ran past Chanaman Roti Stand, the Rastas pausing their meal of corn bread and pepper sauce to watch her whiz by. Huff, huff, huff, huff. She ran past Madame Quan’s Nail Salon, the smell of acrylics filling Candice’s lungs. Her legs were a wind-up toy, rhythmic and determined, until she arrived at her destination.

The doors of the bus met halfway—with Candice’s kilt in between. An animal with its tail snagged in a trap, she pulled at the grey and purple tartan hard enough to thrust her into the lap of the bus driver.

“Watch your step!” the driver said, wiping her thighs as though Candice had left a stain.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 2. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

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When We First Arrived in Toronto

parts of Italy were intact, like ways of looking at the snow. it was in the eyes, the Tuscan light, the way it made the snow explode, and wood, and iron railings and soot; it was in the eyes, and through the spirit, and spirit loved the world and was not alien to it and so the festive was a box of chocolates or any homely thing in the world, for nothing could resist the song of a boy’s heart . . .  Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 1 . . .

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