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.

Recommended

2 Dream in Colour

Eye use 2 dream in colour Prisms of inner eagle visions Pastel spring High Park bloom colour Rich velveteen Rouge Valley autumn colour Feathers of winged ones Bond between father sky and mother earth Eye use 2 dream in colour Prisms of inner eagle visions All my dreams are beginning to fade My days are cooler At night Jack Frost visits me Knock Knock Knocking on my window pane Driving me insane with his insidious laugh Cuz he knows our people never come back . . .  Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 6 . . .

Plan to Make Do

—“Ow . . . yo, that hurt.” A young woman jams her elbow into my chest shoving me out of her space. Her distracted exit from a department store propels her small pod of friends askew. My chest hurts, not in a call-the-ambulance kind of way but in a startled unexpected physical-contact-with-a-stranger kind of way . . .