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The Geography of Living

The geography of living is bordered by memory.

Timothy was born in the bedroom, lived in the sitting room, vacationed in the kitchen, and died in the bathroom.

These are his dimensions.

In the bedroom, he was conceived. He was reconceived, when he first loved there and every time thereafter.

The kitchen was his adventure, nourishing possibility with each meal. He foraged and found, cleaned and cut, measured and mixed, cooked and assembled and, at last, ate.

The sitting room was his occupation. He paced. He measured. He counted.

The bathroom was the beginning and the ending of his days. He abluted and expurgated the space between time.

Each dimension of living had its place. Each rhythm jointed smoothy. They cornered into the walls, leaving rooms and the doors between them.

The windows he loved most of all. By the windows, within each room’s unique dimensions and rhythms, he imagined he saw into, through, and past time.

By the living room’s window, he imagined that he lived w…

Lifeboat: a very short story

To starboard, there was only sea: calm and reflective. To port, more of the same.

“How did we get here?” I asked.

“Best not to think about it, mate,” came the cheerful reply.

At the bow of the boat, three men were playing cards, gambling on a game of War. The man who had cheerily replied to my question reached for a mound of poker chips at the center of their makeshift table. Another man collected the cards. Another sipped coffee.

Beyond them, I saw only more sea.

It was hard to think, but my mouth carried on instinctively. “But, wouldn’t it help, help to get us out of here, if we knew how we got here?”

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” replied the cheerful man. He placed a large bet. Each player was dealt a card face down. “Things will take care of themselves. Join the game. There’s a place for you at the table.”

I looked aft instead.

Over the stern of the boat, the sea lay flat, still, and almost endless. At the horizon, directly behind us, dark clouds marked the space between sea a…

Two very long paragraphs: a very short story

Stephen felt a stumble of movement and looked up from his book.

A girl. Cute. Young woman. For the past twenty years, during my service on the boards of directors or advisory boards of most of the major global conservation organizations and in my research in this field, there has been...

Stephen sat at the very back of the bus. The bus pulled away from the station, turned right onto Laurier, and then turned sharply left onto Nicholas. The girl sat near him, at the other window, three seats away.

Wearing strange pants. Jogging? Fuzzy pink. She’s cute. Not fuzzy. Like little balls. She’s taking her coat off. Sneakers. Yellow socks. Greasy hair in face. In fact, to push for one means to push for the other, and to let the one go means that you let a lot of the other go. What?

He concentrated.

And in my research in this field, there has been. Now her sweater too? Tank top.

He concentrated.

And in my research in this field, there has been...

Wordless concern moved through Stephen's…