i was standing at some point. on two legs, with my arms out, maybe balancing, maybe not, but i was standing. my centre of gravity was above the wet cement, but now i'm up to my halfway in the road, gravel in my mouth and sludge in my ears. my left eye closed on reflex, and it twitches every time a piece of rock knocks on my eyelid. i'm worried the road juice is going to seep into my tear ducts and then i'll cry, and part of my body will be in the road and then i'll really never leave it. the sky is the ocean is the city is me and so i should not be afraid, but i don't want to cry into the road. that's too direct. then i am the culprit. it would be like carving up an animal with a knife instead of shooting it from afar; intimate, and all too ugly.

my blue waterbottle is likely done in for. so are my pants. and maybe a part of my hair. and maybe that means my head is done too. i list things i can sacrifice, as if i have a choice. things i am willing to sacrifice, offering, hoping the road doesn't eat at my most precious thing; my stomach. she's always hungry, she's always hungry and she guides me and if i had listened to her i wouldn't be face down in bayview avenue now. my stomach is my precious thing, and my keys, so that i have a place to sleep tonight. but i suppose by now the cement has caked on it. the keychain is attached to my jean loop and my jeans are even more submerged than my eye. even if i were to pull out the keys, and wipe off the cement to the best of my ability, even one grain could throw off the rotation. and then i won't be able to get in my bed and sleep.

my entire life would be a couple of meters over. and i would be outside, my phone on the brink of death and my keys useless, but i'd try to jimmy the lock for hours. i'd give up and get a slushie at 7/11. nd the door still wouldn't open. you can imagine if it does or if it won't. either way, the agony lies in the time where i am outside my house. i am knocking and no one is letting me in. the cook who is me, or the student who is me, or the cleaner who is me, or the landlord who is me, i am not letting myself in. i am just watching myself try to get into something that is apathetic if i will be near a bed or not. i will stand outside the door and i will peer into the window and i will knock and i will wait for someone, not to open the door, but for someone to pass by me and ask if they can help. and then me being locked outside my own house is not a sad story and one about the place that is supposed to be mine not caring the same way i do, the same way that one lover is always coiled closer to the hearth, but it will become something shared. and something shared it something worthy. of time, and of words, and of consequence. everything worth existing is because it is shared. and then maybe this stranger, or this couple, or this group of high school students or grandmas coming back from bingo or therapy group attendees will hear about my fall into the cement, which is now necessary in order to meet them, and one of them will be hungry and want a snack, so we will all go to the convenience store. and one of them knows a locksmith, and one of them knows a city guy, and one of them knows someone who had a similar situation and suddenly the weight of getting back to myself does not fall on me.

i return to the cement. i am not locked out of my house yet. i should be content with a quiet evening. i should appreciate the routine. i do. but, i admit, i have not outgrown the dreams a knight in the form of friendship. i have not outgrown anything like that in my whole life. i walk around in giant shoes and i clomp around like an adult, but if you were to many me run, i would fall flat on my face. i would be exposed as someone who is not tall, or big, or supposed to be wearing those shoes.

i think about moving my legs. i could try to gain leverage with one of them. i could try and pull one up to my knee. but i fear the rest of my body will tip further into the cement; like the deck of a ship, like all the boatswains and rowers i will end up in the ocean, i will be the fulcrum that does my lungs in.

i think about using an arm to lift my head. that should be my priority, i think. i can breathe out of my mouth, but i am sinking. i did not not forget i am sinking. i have just accepted that. and maybe that is why i have narratively ignored it until now. i have been sinking as i have told you about my maybe not-house and my not-shoes and now my maybe not-sinking. but i have always been sinking. it has been established, at least to me. innate in the scene since i am in wet cement. of course i am sinking. we are in a book, a novel, and i must sink. there must be stakes to falling in wet cement. simply falling in wet cement is not enough. i must continue the narration, i am held hostage, because an eloquent novel rarely offs it's protagonist, and if it does, not in such an unthematic way. it must be surrounded by pomp and circumstance. and so the sinking is the pomp and circumstance, if i am to die at the end of this scene. you must read on to find out.

i am sinking. but you knew that, because i knew that, and because the laws of narration said so. i am sinking, but slowly. there is enough time for all these thoughts and the ones that are not being translated to you. there are some just for me. or at least, that is what she will tell you. she knows me better than you, she'll say. so of course there is more than a dummy underneath. and i will not tell you otherwise.

i am sinking. we will try that again. i am sinking. i can feel the wet cement rising around my legs. it's closing in, holding my waist as if i need to be told not to move. i obey. it has risen over my right ankle, even though i tried to distribute my weight evenly. i must have fallen on my right ankle. i must have tried to break the fall with my right. funny how we sacrifice our dominate hands and feet. funny how we have dominate hands and feet. wouldn't it be easier to be capable with all limbs? evolution has favoured the right handed. or at least, the ones that came out of evolution. so did i. my right ankle is coated in wet cement. it is slowly filling my shoe. the weight makes my body tip, slowly, hard to starboard. it accelerates, like an old train engine, loud and not enough to carry the load.

i will lift my left arm, i decide. fuck evolution. i will lift my left arm and prop up my head. i suppose i could sacrifice the whole of my body. a decapitated head. i suppose that is the most idenfiying part of me. my family and friends would know. my mother and father, my two college friends and one colleague i eat lunch with on tuesdays. my neat circle. they would know. but i should leave them something better. at least a hand, those are double jointed and artistic; my circle would think it was fitting. i'd leave my parents my right and everyone else my left. they could splice up my pinky, let whoever take my thumb who wanted it. i think thumbs are the least aesthetic and most necessary part of hands. they are the moon of the orbit of fingers. they run the household. they are used for chopsticks, and cleaning, and all the small motor pinching movements.

i start to lift my left arm, and in exchange, my right ankle starts tipping even further. she reaches into the sludge. the weight wants me to stand in the bottom of this construction, a drowned one. breathing in cement would hurt, i think. breathing in rocks would turn me into an immortal very quickly, i think. the small pieces would fill out my lungs and indent into my bones and then when i died, and my meat withered away, the rock would be left. it slowly would melt into the road, as i did, and that would be when i would be the least guilty. i only died, and nature carved me out, and then i decayed, long after i could see the sun and must less think, and my existence would be so tilted towards nature it wouldn't be human. my self would have died. the only thing returning to the earth would be a hollow copy of me, but to the cemement and the sedimentary and the manga underneath,more of its cousins.

i prop my head up. my chin is covered in wet cement. i curl my fingers into a stand and rest my chin there. the cement is grimy, wet, like the insides of a gargoyle. i want to pull my hand out of the intestines of the road and patch it up. there will be such an ugly hole left behind. it won't even look like me. the shadow of humans doesn't look like humans. snow angels. belly flopping in pools. me in the cement. i don't want that. i don't want anyone to know i feel in the cement. something about the struggle to get out would be shameful, especially since i am lying here. i could fall asleep in the road, but people will think i scrabbled and clawed at the road to get out.

i can feel my hand starting to dry. now that my head is out, i have a better picture of the situation. the cement puddle is 10 metres by maybe 6, an entire swath of road. if i squint, i can see construction blockades. the road is closed. there have also not been any headlights. the signs may not be for anyone but the legality.

[i want to go attempt another piece so this will end here]

And then... they fall, not to guilt or consequence, but to something far more unexpected—love. Love, in a strange form, ordinary yet consuming, arrives in the face of a chance encounter. It sneaks up during a moment of reprieve, when the weight of their deeds momentarily lifts. An ordinary person, a passerby, offers a kind smile, unaware of the darkness concealed beneath. And with that simple act, the character finds themselves inexplicably drawn, craving redemption and connection in the midst of their crumbling reality, despite knowing that it could never truly save them.

unlatched

to fall,

is a letting go

the foot leaves

the tree stems

stimming us

with a wobbling

fidget cannot replace

but does, asked or axeless

with that maddest intent

to hold on, to hold off, to

holler bloodlet, labour,

holler jaundiced dying

holler onyx, Blackbox theatre

holler fake fire! immolation

the trunk in flames

full of faith, knotted

with note of warning,

Signed "Pandora," closing

"And then he kissed the ground.," Billy said, grinning like an 8 year old instead of the 28-year-old husband and father that he was.

I rolled my eyes. "I can't believe you are smiling about having a fight on the basketball court. You could have been hurt!"

"Nah, they didn't know what hit'em. I was like a windmill, fists flying. It was so cool!"

I shook my head, exasperated. "How's your brother?"

"He's fine. Everyone's fine. The other guys ran off when they heard sirens."

"Sirens?!"

"Yeah. No biggie. They just warned us that we might want to play in another neighborhood. Not safe for foreigners on the courts around here."

"See! Jeez, Billy."

"It's stupid. This is my neighborhood, too. The courts are public. Some of the guys are cool. They call me Vlade for that Serbian guy on the Lakers."

"Isn't he like seven feet tall?"

"Not because I'm tall, because I sink three pointers like nobody's business."

I sighed. "I guess the guy who kissed the ground wasn't hurt too bad if they all ran away."

Looking anywhere but at me, Billy said, "well, funny thing, I was so crazy punching left and right, it was actually Alex that kissed the ground."

"Your friend, Alex?"

"It was an accident."

"An accident."

"And then he got up and punched me back, so we're even."

i fell for the future

sun'll come out tomorrah

rained hard's a mother fucker

but i still cried i love ya

then i fell for the past

every dream a replica

of every kick in the ass

screwed me like gomorrah

then i fell for the present

got mad'n committed murdah

got me strapped to a chair

fried me down in flor'da

A/N: Strong language and offensive swearing

Why do I go to these shows? Gem collectors, jewelers, and mineral hunters with row upon row of fresh out of the earth stones. The jewelers with their locked, brilliantly lit display cases, and the amazing necklaces made of every combination of silver and gold. Not to mention and endless selection of silver framed pendants with every crystal known to man shaped to bring out their amazing vibrations and properties.

As I wandered through the various business displays, I spent time watching the people. Reiki practitioners had clients on massage tables. I groaned. Really? Calm is not what the continual roar of conversations provided. The occasional screaming baby, and toddlers running every which way didn’t give of the right energy for a proper healing session. These idiots would do more damage than good.

Muttering to myself, I spotted a Chakra tree at one table, and instantly recognized the colored glass of a fake. My guess was no one here bothered to check the reputation of these merchants. I left the area to head for the back wall where the mineral miners had long tables of crystals and geodes. Some still covered in bits of clay and dust from the hole they were found in. Much better. The surge of calmness relaxed my vibrating nerves and I moved toward the beryl crystals.

A glimmer of pale blue with undertones of green caught my attention. The group of natural crystals on their feldspar basis were breath taking, and I waved at the dark blond man at the other end of the display. I had to have them. I didn’t care if my fiancé broke our engagement. His continual insistence that I give up my mineral collecting, that I had enough of them, was grating on me in any case.

I continually traded, sold, and upgraded specimens. Some of them priceless, many of them destined to be cut into the gems I used in my artwork. Who said these magnificent stones were only for jewelry? My sculptures and flat work were in demand. I had five commissions to fulfill and three of my own pieces on the go in my studio.

Scanning his impressive chest, I found his name tag. “Hi, Vance. How much?” I pointed to the enchanting group of aquamarines.

“Ms. Bergstein! I’m delighted to see you here.” His voice was deep, and his accent held a slight burr, perhaps Irish but more likely Scottish. “How can we help you?”

“The aquamarines, how much?” I wasn’t going to let them get away from me. And if they had anymore of the same quality, I wanted them for the mosaic in blue and green I was designing.

“That group? It’s got several flawlessly clear crystals. Probably five grand if you are planning to cut stones from it. If you promise me you will keep them as they are, then three.”

“I see my reputation precedes me.” I twisted the engagement ring off my left ring finger, took it off and slipped it i to my pocket. “I’ll take it. I’m looking for more loose crystals suitable for cutting. Turquoise, and other blue minerals. Maybe some fluorite as well. As long as it’s the green blue. No purples. I’m working on something. Amazonite, green aventurine, jade, nephrite, lapis lazuli, apatite too. The aquamarine group here, goes under light on my specimen shelf. Too gorgeous to do anything else. I want its calm energy for my study.

“Sybil!”

The shout turned me around to face the furious face of my boyfriend. I just figured out he never should have been anything more. I should have dropped him like the scum he was showing himself to be.

“Shit,” I whispered. I caught Vance coming around the table to stand beside me from the corner of my eye.

“Stop this nonsense. You don’t need to continue working. I’ve got more than enough money to keep you in the lap of luxury.” Gavin Armstrong was the fourth generation heir to his family’s real estate conglomerate. He wanted me to drop my career and join a dozen charities instead.

He grabbed my elbow and started to drag me toward the exit.

Vance took three quick strides and placed himself in front of Gavin. “The lady and I have business to discuss.”

“Cheating, are you?” Gavin’s furious voice drew attention from every person in the vicinity. Cell phones came up and I knew I was going to be the next Tik-Tok sensation.

I yanked my arm out of his grip. If I was going to be a viral social media star, it might as well be witness to our breakup. No way he could deny my intentions this way.

Vance stepped into the gap between us. One hand against Gavin’s chest, he kept him from using the fist he raised. Not the first time violence threatened when I told him I wasn’t going to quit a lucrative career in the arts.

I pulled the ten carat diamond solitaire out of my pocket.

“Vance, would you hand this to Gavin.”

His arm stiffened and he grabbed a fistful of my soon to be ex’s shirt, as my soon to be former fiancé took a swing at me.

“You’re sure this is what you want to do?” Vance asked me.

“I am. As far as the world wants to know,” I waved the nearest videographer toward me, “I am officially breaking my engagement to Gavin Armstrong the fourth. I’ll be moving back into my apartment above my studio in Soho. In fact, I don’t care what he does with the stuff I have at his mansion is up to him. He ordered it all for me. Not one thing I actually chose for myself.”

“You bitch. Sybil, you don’t have the first clue about how to act in proper society.” Gavin’s sneering snarl brought gasps from the crowd closing in around us.

“Stuff it Gavin. I won’t be your puppet anymore. Vance, give him that ring. I don’t want him anywhere near me ever again.”

Vance pinched the band between his thumb and forefinger and held it out. Gavin backed away from him, refusing to take it and my sturdy champion somehow read my mind.

“I’ll drop it on the floor, you idiot. And the world is going to witness it. It’s going to be on every gossip show on the internet. I suggest you take it like a gentleman and walk away.” Vance held out the ring again.

Two well armed security guards pushed their way through the mob of on lookers.

“Ma’am, is there a problem here?” His tone was a shade too concerned. He glanced at Gavin and winced. As usual, his money and reputation for getting even, was working for him.

“She’ll be coming with me, if she knows what’s good for her.” Gavin dodged around Vance and grabbed my arm.

Vance pulled his other arm up behind his back. “Take him out. Sybil, take the ring and put it in his shirt pocket.” He glared at the security guard.

Gavin wouldn’t let go of me. His eyes were on mine and his voice rose above the din. “I’ll get you for this, bitch. You’re mine and you damn well know it.”

The other guards came to my side. “Let go of her. If you don’t, we’ll remove you, and call the cops as well. You’re making threats. Her safety is in doubt.”

Gavin pulled me closer and spat in my face. “Give me the damn ring. You’re going to pay for this, cunt. Gold digger.”

I smiled sweetly. “Here’s your ring. Don’t you even try to accuse me of stealing it.” I pulled his suit jacket open and deposited the sparkler in the inside pocket. I turned to the guy who was recording every word and said, “Did you get that?”

He nodded. “Every word. I’ll give you a copy as soon as I can get back to my offices. Mika Gordon, Chanel 4 news at the New York Gem and Mineral Show.”

“I’ll need it. Next stop the police precinct around the corner. I’ll be asking them to charge you with assault, Gavin.” I pulled a polishing rag out of my back jeans pocket and wiped my face. Tucking it back into my usual carrying spot, I turned to Vance.

“We have business I believe.”

His smile was broad. “Yes, we do. I’ll just mark those amazing aquamarines as sold, and I’ll come with you to the police. I think you’ll need a witness to get things moving.” He led me back to his display.

“I did it again,” I sighed as I watched him put the sold sticker on the feldspar base.

“What? You bought a magnificent mineral sample and got rid of a buffoon.” Vance didn’t sound angry.

“Feil in love with a pile of rocks and turned my life on its head. My dad is going to be furious.”

“Again? This I have to hear,” Vance prompted.

“Did it in university. I was studying fine arts, so I could take over the galleries. I had this idea in the back of my head, and I took a metal sculpting class. Do you remember Emerald Cat?”

He nodded. “It’s why I knew who you were. Love that piece. It put you into the limelight at the year end Fine Arts show.”

“I found the stones for it and made the sculpture. I saw them at this show ten years ago. Changed the course of my life completely. And now another of beryl gemstone group has done it again.”

“Trust the stones.”

I stopped to look up at Vance’s face. His deep blue eyes said there was a story there. I couldn’t wait to find out more about this guy. Anyone who would step into a fight with Gavin Armstrong was worth getting to know much better. And if the stones meant more than just a paycheck, I needed to pursue this.

“I always do. Come on, let’s get going.” I stood on my tippy toes and brushed a kiss across his lips. “Thank you.”

He gestured toward the exit. “Police first, and then we’ll see.”

I nodded. Cautious too. Yup. This one was worth getting to know. I did a little happy dance on the way out. The future couldn’t be brighter.

I write about him sometimes

how he came to group therapy

soaking wet, his button down shirt

soaked through with sweat

the Star of David

hanging from his neck

like the parental expectations

that seemed to

perpetually set him back

mid-twenties, like the rest of us

he was always late

worked some corporate job

and would tell us

that he broke down

on the highway

while driving his car

we would all nod in sympathy

and then he mentioned

the panic attack, the pure

adrenaline that kicked in

when he veered off

onto the shoulder

playing rap music so loud that

his speakers blew out

trying to distract himself

from the sheer hell of himself

I think of him now

maybe as an example

of how we can contain ourselves

so well, until the breaking

point, anxiety like

traffic that doesn't slow

panic seeping into

the very fiber of our clothes

His eyes are ¹ ², caliginous orbitals, celestial bodies born in a nebula, insipid of light.

His face is plump, ¹⁰ to a rotund, pit-bellied fool, black freckles speckled along his ⁵, dotting his nose.

His ³ slits follow your every move. Seeping through your skin. The smell of marijuana is fragrant. A nauseating stench tinges your nostrils.

Stygic, even — forcing a visceral reaction, snapping your neck to the side, sullying the moment in befowlment.

⁶ coerces you to writhe at the sight of the ghastly specter.

The hairs on the back of your neck ⁷.

Your heart ⁸ a beat.

Syllabic dregs escape its lips, words you could only ⁹ make out even if you acquired its rosetta stone.

And yet, you feel an insistent compulsion to place your hand on the glass frame...

So you do.

Your hands gingerly ⁷ off the circumference of the sink. Slowly, as if spacetime and gravity declared it impromptu in the ¹¹ spectrum of events spindled by destiny's hands, you pivot a hand onto the frame. Friction gives way—everything else ceases to matter. And as you collide with the tempered glass, you find yourself tumbling headfirst into the aventurine confines.

What you see… is a list:

¹ Gaping

² Apertures

³ Jagged

⁴ Coffee

⁵ Cold Visage

⁶ Dread

⁷ Rise

⁸ Skips

⁹ Partially

¹⁰ Concomitant

¹¹ Grand

The instructions on the bottom:

Read it back.

"Well... did It work?"

The young man heard his voice close to him

He turned and saw the old man sitting next to him, drinking a cold glass of water

Young man was confused

" scuse me mister? "

Old man took a sip of his drink

" I said... did It work? "

" did what work? "

" that plan of yours."

Young man became defensive, not as defensive to pick up his revolver; but defensive enough to fix his posture for quick aim

" what are you talking about old man?! "

" You becoming lonewolf and all... leaving everyone you cared about. "

Young man was shocked

" h...how do you know this? "

Old man finished his drink and ordered another glass of water

" you feel closer to yourself now? "

" I... I don't know. Im not there yet. "

Old man smiled

" but you do miss It don't you? "

" miss what? "

" people caring about you. People knowing you."

Young man accepted that old man knew things about his life and so became more relaxed

" I never wanted to be in the center of attention. But for a long time my actions made me become that type of man. I was the villain in other people's eyes, be it friends or other folks... even family members... I thought things would become more clear If I take this road but... not yet. "

Old man left his drink half empty and got up.

He looked at the young man

" don't punish yourself oliver. What you seek doesn't come from others. It comes from your heart. Make peace with yourself first and then... you'll be at peace with others. "

Old man walked to the exit

" Im here whenever you wanna talk young feller. I haven't forgotten you. "

Oliver looked at old man speechless

He turned around and saw the bartender cleaning the table

"Do you know who that was partner? "

" Who? "

" the old man who just left."

Bartender looked at him confusingly

" there was no one in the bar except you mister."