CHARMAINE CHENG

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(via Whistler’s Hadaway House by Patkau Architects)

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(via Urban Capital Property Group Reformulates Living³ in Toronto)

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(via Urban Capital Property Group Reformulates Living³ in Toronto)

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Kinney, Minnesota

The leaves crunched under my boots as I made my way further and further into the clearing. Kinney, Minnesota is not for the faint of heart. I wiggled my toes around inside my too-big wool socks, in an attempt to generate some extra warmth. The wind bit into my exposed neck, and for the third time since I’d been outside today, I wished I’d listened to John and wore a scarf. Instead, I had an old Pentax hung around my neck, with no film. In my haste to leave the motel before the sun was tucked completely behind the horizon, I’d left the mass of wool draped over the baseboard radiator, its home for the rest of the night. I hastily clomped through the parking lot full of tailgaters, head down, knowing full-well they were watching my bony ass make its way to the beat-up Galant at the end of the lot. Passing through signs off the highway advertising adult fun stores next to Metropolitan United Church’s Teleministry provided an oddly comforting sort of backdrop to my drive. Gotta love small-town America. 1 freeway and 3 stoplights later, I was stuck outside in the cold after driving for 45 minutes, and I would have nothing to show for it at the end of the night. I sighed, but there was no point in going back now. Glancing at the clock on the dash, I scanned the area for anybody else. T-minus 30 minutes and counting.

Please God, don’t let me die in the middle of nowhere.

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why doesn’t this theme give me apostrophes

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Not a stock character

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My love affair with inertia

My love affair with inertia

A glowing exit sign

I’ve got more faults than a map

Of California’s seismic activity

Spelling love as t-a-k-e

I traded integrity for security

And called it love

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Electric tempt

As you light the forest ablaze

To witness my fall

You say my name in italics

I wear your fingertips on my hips

Your lips

Whispered electric tempt

A poorly fabricated lie

Your eyes keep taking off what I’m wearing

Disposable friends

Reading the freckles on your chest like Braille

Trying to find love

Where it doesn’t exist

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We haven’t even backed out of the parking space yet;

My head slams back on the headrest of my seat. We haven’t even backed out of the parking space yet, and I’m already regretting my decision to get in a car with Greg.

Greg chuckles nervously.

I glance over from the passenger side, and give him an encouraging smile. He was too busy whipping his big head from side to side though, checking his blind spots, which I was glad for because otherwise he’d see my wan face. Inside, I mentally cursed myself for forgetting my car keys at home.

As he kamikazed through the intersection (through a yellow light and going at 30 above the legal limit), I tried to inconspicuously fasten my seatbelt. Why wasn’t my seatbelt on, you ask? Turns out Greg’s passenger side seatbelt detector hasn’t been working for two years. Upon getting into the car, he happily let me know that the detector was broken; therefore there was absolutely no need for me to strap myself in. The irony was that I was scared witless, and there was Greg sitting there next to me with a seatbelt over his body- the very one that he clicked into place begrudgingly and with an eyeroll (plus a droll wink at me, for good measure). As I tried to calm my jackhammer heart, I closed my eyes and attempted to enter a meditative state. I start to see myself in a very dark room, maybe this is how space looked before God plopped in some big rocks, some burning, some not, when suddenly a flash-

I opened my eyes to see a car whiz by on the other side of the two-lane freeway, and then I spot a police cruiser hiding behind some leafy overgrowth to the side of the road…

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You’re a show pony for the internet

Us and them

You’re a show pony for the internet

Swallowed glass

And you don’t want to cough it out

Don’t shred your voice box

But do please the cynics

Is your seat belt buckled?

Tray table locked

Seat in upright position

Painting by numbers

Wave goodbye from the shore

Ghost ships

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He was no Moses;

She found a baby in a basket on the river, but the baby was no Moses; he was quite the opposite. His skin had a bluish-grey tint to it, almost the same shade as the water he was floating in. But his hair, his beautiful golden-spun hair- it was nearly the same color as his wicker time-machine time-capsule saving-grace. Bless his small faintly beating heart, she sure wasn’t about to let the little spud out of her sight. Hastily tying a knot in the hem of her dress, she waded into the knee-deep water, cold as a January morning but not as cold as her heart was warm, so she plunged into that icy river. Further out she waded, until she could reach her arms out and touch…

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Let's go, sugarbeet;

“Let’s go, sugarbeet,” he said and snapped on the light. He was holding two duffel bags, one very light, the other very heavy. It was her car, and she had slept with the keys. She slowly sat up, dragging her sleeve across her chin-

“Hit the road, Jack!” he sing-songed.

She glared at him across the console. He had already taken it upon himself to completely re-adjust the passenger seat to his liking, and pulled his dark Red Sox cap low over his eyes. Before she knew it, he was fast asleep.

She was now in complete control. She let the thought sink in as the streetlamps of the freeway flickered past. She glanced down at the speedometer, and realized that her foot had grown heavy. The thin red pointer on the dial continued slowly but steadily on its clockwise rotation…

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