Fiction

Today I heard five Shakespearean insults walking along the corridor, and if I hear one more, it will be a good day, an even day.

On this morning, at this place, the prevailing wind is from the west. Given the location of the site, the air we breathe right now will reach the city in an hour or two. When it arrives in the city it will seem like a mystery, an affliction.

Random was what life did best, Bea thought. It conferred cancer on the virtuous, drunk drivers on the unsuspecting, it matched noble wives to unfinished men, wickedness to wealth, weakness to power.

The manager takes me into the back room to explain the company ethos and the role. Each neighborhood store should feel like just that, a neighborhood store, she says, reading from the brochure.

Beck didn’t believe in an afterlife, but he was starting to think that this was what people meant by ghosts. There was something there, he craned his mind toward it: something about ghosts. 

You know, Lady, I ain’t trying to start nothing, but a bunch of people’s saying you’re the best thing breathing.

Starting at 1:47 a.m., BC emergency dispatch started receiving 911 calls about an older, ruby-red Ford Taurus with no licence plate being driven erratically on Highway 16, headed east toward Prince George.

What does a person who is universally loved need saving from anyway?

Even half a decade after the news cycle washed its hands of the matter I could still recall details with ease. Though I preferred not to.