Day 19 Working woman and probably should have asked first

I had my first legit job training today, 4 hours and minimum wage and everything. Is it weird to be working my first real job at 22 years old? Or maybe to have graduated summa cum laude from one of the top undergrads in the country and be working minimum wage...? That's kind of depressing, actually. I was paid for some research I did with my program, but that wasn't really a job. It was paid because of the crazy funding we have.

I'm at David's Bridal, as a junior stylist. At least I get to be around wedding dresses, which I love. They're not Elie Saab collections, but they're a reasonable price and they're beautiful anyways.

Day 19: A conversation you regret never having

"Marry me."

There, that'll do it. Simple, to the point, and impossible to mistake for any other request. I smile victoriously down at the open ring box in my hand. Brilliant cut, almost a full carat, 24K gold band.

Perfect.

"Fuck."

I've been so busy playing propose to myself that I'm already running late to pick up my girlfriend for dinner. Don't want to be late for this dinner. The reservations took me two weeks to get, and she loves this restaurant. 

I rush to finish my tie and shrug on my suit jacket. The ring box will be safe tucked into my pocket, I hope. I'll get down on one knee when the server comes out with champagne, kneel and pull it out. Yeah, I think dreamily, that's perfect. 

"Ouch!"

In my daze of perfect daydreaming I opened the door but managed to walk into the door frame. The first thing I check for is the ring. Phew, still there.

She looks perfect. This is perfect. Hurry up and doll so I can get dessert and champagne! 

I try not to show nerves and stare at my girlfriend instead. She's in a new dress, silky pink that drapes delicately and backless. Beautiful diamond earrings (my last Christmas gift) that'll match the ring I got her perfectly. 

Finally!

I wanted to cry for rejoice as she at last finishes with the asparagus on her steak plate. I've been staring at her eating for 10 minutes already. I make eye contact with our waiter and nod slightly. giving him the agreed upon signal. 

He brings out our dessert, some kind of classic French fruit tart, and two glasses of champagne. 

"To us," I smile and offer a toast. She responds with a smile - God she's beautiful - and giggles. It is our dating anniversary. We met 4 years ago today. 

I wait until she has her first sip, then decide it's time. 

"Mina," I kneel, "Marry me." 

KILLED IT.

I pop the ring box open and smile up at her expectantly. 

Waitwaitwait. She's not jumping up and down and saying yes. What's going on? I start to panic, and freeze stupidly in place, still smiling vacantly and holding open the damn box. The other diners are turning to look at us. 

"Brett, uhm, let's talk about it in the car. Can you get the check?" 

And she runs off, just like that. I'm left staring at her, still kneeling. My knee is starting to hurt. 

Our waiter comes over and helps me up. He gives me a commiserating pat on the back and waived the champagne and dessert fee. I sit back down, stare at her empty seat, then eat the tart vengefully. I downed my glass of the champagne, paid for the rest of the dinner, and left, to the murmuring of the other patrons.

Outside Mina was waiting for me, damn her. 

"You can walk ho-"

"Yes. Yes I will marry you, but not with that ring, Brett." 

I blink and open my mouth stupidly at her without forming words. It takes a moment for her words to sink in properly. 

"You are marrying me?"

"Nothing better I'd like to do."

"Then why didn't you accept in the restaurant?"

"Because of the ring. I didn't want to accept then not wear it, but Brett-"

"I worked really hard to pick out this ring, you said you like brilliant cut, I looked it up! This is a brilliant cut! It's clear, colourless, I did the whole 4 Cs thing! What's wrong with it?"

"I'm allergic to gold you dumbass." 

"You-!"

I swallow back the rest of my words and stare at her. In 4 years, how would I have not... 

"Since when?"

"Always."

"But you wear..."

She's won, I can see it on her face. In all my limited memory of her jewellery she's never worn gold. 

"Marry ME, Brett, I'll even help you find a ring that won't give me hives. And while we're at it, I'm allergic to saffron, so no paella at the wedding, please." 

Day 18 Fondue and taboo

I almost made it before the next day today. I made cheese fondue with gruyere and it actually wasn't awful. I mean it was for the first half then the pot heated up properly and the cheese melted yummily like it's suppose to.

Waiting for my nails to dry and early training tomorrow, so short but sweet prompt.

Day 18: Come up with every possible way to describe something as "red," without using the word itself.

It's-it's... Gosh, I don't know what colour that is. It's bright, fire bright. In fact if you stare at the outer edge of a fire, and the glow it burns into the sky, it's that. 

No, not quite actually. Let's try again. It's...it's... cherries. Cherry stained lips. A girl in a white dress, on a picnic blanket. Can you see that? Her first bite into a bursting cherry that explodes with juices. Can you see the juice dying her lips and spotting on her dress?

No, eh? Okay, let's try anger. You're a mother with your newborn. You're exhausted and overheated after a day out. You leave your baby in the carriage for a moment. You turn around to see a stranger roughly ripping your baby out from the carriage. Everything you see is coated in this haze and soon it's all you can see while you rage against the attempted kidnapper. 

Still no, huh. Okay how's this. Look over there. See that flower? The rose, yeah, over there. No that one, the bud. See the one with the most contrast against the leafs? That's the one. That's the colour.

What's that? Red you say. Red then. Red flames, red lips, red haze, red rose. 

Day 17 I suck at this deadline thing and I've only got 4 minutes to save the world

I know I know, I'm shit at this 10PM deadline thing. In my defence my brain doesn't work until 11PM at night. Last night of trivia for this year, we were...pretty bad. Turns out none of us know our Christmas movies too well. I know Home Alone and that's about it.

Anyways, the children got a big surprise at the hospital today. The Bulldogs, local hockey team to you, came to see them. We had to fit 24 bulky players with equipment, cameramen, reps and the mascot into our family lounge, which is still overcrowded with toys because the playroom remains under construction. I stayed an hour and half over shift time to help set up and bring stuff for children who couldn't make it. I carried around stuffed bulldogs, almost kicked some TV reporter's crazy expensive camera that he left on the floor and stared more than was decent at the really good looking team manager. I'm exhausted but no complaints here, they were great eye candy. Can we get some sailors in here next time?

Day 17: I can't go into this right now, but if I could, I'd tell you this...

Let me start off by saying I did nothing wrong. Zilch. I know I'm about to be accused for a lot of things, but swear to God, hand on bible and everything, this is all true and completely unintentional.

I found a phone. I still wish I left the damn thing where it was and went on with my day. Although I suppose if I did then I'd just blown up with the rest of you in a few minutes. It wasn't even some expensive, high quality smart phone. Just a crappy one with a lazy encryption of a pattern locking. I screwed around with it and drew a 'Z' in the reverse direction a normal person does it. The phone unlocked. 

I flipped through it to see if I could find some information about who dropped it. No photos, just a few screenshots of texts that I didn't look to closely at. Something about a 'wedding' and a city on the water. I went into contacts and there were none saved. I was opening text history to text the first person when a call came in. Good, I'll just tell them I picked up this phone and their buddy lost it. Maybe it was the owner calling so they could get it back. 

"H-" 

The person on the other end spoke immediately, first yelling at me for not responding to the texts, then asked if I was ready. Panicked, I mumbled, "Um, yeah, I-" 

They cut me off again, and told me to meet them. 

Weird place, I thought, eyeing the ethnic grocery store. It looks like the kind of place my parents would visit to buy raw meats and Chinese vegetables. I could barely make out the name, something lucky something jade. At least I didn't stand out against the other people. I figured if they weren't going to let me talk, I'd just meet them here and explain. And curiosity gets the better of me. 

A middle-aged woman, resembling many of my parents' friends, eyed me and the phone I tried to hold in clear view. She asked me if I'd like to see their tuna. Confused, I shrugged and followed her. Maybe I'll find the owner standing around here. 

She leads me into a backroom, and all I can think is that it's like some crappy spy movie. Any time now, some old man will come out and say 'Oh, are you who we're waiting for?' I watch too many bad movies. 

In the room a young guy, my age or a little older, is on the phone. He hangs up after I stand there awkwardly for a minute and eyes me the same way the woman did. Pretty sure I was trespassing at this point so I shove the phone out at him. He just nods. 

"Yes, I'm aware you are with us. You do well with assimilation," he spoke in Chinese, and gestured at my clothing. I guess by that he meant I didn't look like a fresh off the plane Chinese tourist, kind of describes the lady who had left me in the room, though. She even had the weird plastic visor hat thing seen exclusively on older than 40 year old Chinese women. 

At this point I stay silent. This is kind of stupid, actually. Part of me wonders how far the charade will go on like this. I'm curious (curiosity killed the cat) as to what I've walked in on. Some secret chicken smuggling den? Illegal workers? Man I wish it was just international students looking to work illegally. 

He lays out plans on carefully detailed blue prints. I recognize the Toronto convention centre. City on the lake, I guess. He points out a position, points to me, then writes tomorrow's date and 2PM and circles it on the paper. I give a non-committal shrug/nod combination. I'm starting to wonder if this is some sort of protest. I can't imagine why, as China's new president was bridging international relationships with a passion yet seen in any of his predecessors. The president was under fire from some rich expats, though, for trying to ship them back to China. A lot of them were escaped, crooked businessmen and politician, who had embezzled their share of the money then took off for refuge in other countries so their riches would be safe. 

I let the man talk at me, barely understanding the Chinese he was throwing at me. I speak Chinese fine, but he spoke with the south western accent that meant I only understood 1/3 of the one sided conversation. He stopped only to make a bowl of instant noodles. I made a face at him for that and he smiles sheepishly. 

Twenty minutes later I was fidgeting. My feet hurt from standing this whole time and all I got from him was something about making our opinions heard and liberation. I assume I've been suckered into some big protest thing and sigh privately. I'll just stay home tomorrow. He finishes with a clap of his hands and looks at me directly for the first time. I recoiled. There was a maniacal glint in his eyes. A doctor would diagnose him with psychopathy; he had no touch in reality. 

The lady returns, magically on time. I'm wondering if she's been hiding somewhere listening in the whole time. I'm about to mumble that I needed to go, but she grabbed me by the arm and steered me to a different room. She reaches for a jar sealed the same way my grandparents sealed preserved vegetables. Was she going to hand me pickled radishes? I blink at her, confused. She ignores me and reaches into the jar. Instead of vinegar, I catch the distinct scent of metals. 

Knives. Guns. Even a hand grenade. If I wasn't terrified out of my mind I'd ask her if she kept the tanks in the other jars. She shoves the whole lot at me and looks at me expectantly. At this point I figure she'll either dice me apart or I can grab something to defend myself with. 

Guns are cold. I pull my sweater sleeve down to grab a random gun. No idea what model. It's black, shaped like a gun, and has a trigger. Does that help? She nods at my choice, takes it from my hands, and shove it into my purse. 

"Come with me." She didn't give me a choice and took my arm again, pulling me to the upper floors of the building. She left me in a sparse bedroom with a small window that overlooked the streets below, and took my purse. She locked the door behind her as she left.

At this point I'm in panic mode. I've somehow been enlisted into, in my mind, some sort of crazy rally thing involving weapons. I'd call the police if I had my phone. Maybe I could bang on the windows? Hang a sign up? 

Half an hour later the woman comes back with two more people in tow. One a 30-something man in an expensive suit. He looked like a financial district type, complete with the metrosexual hair sported by every man in Toronto. The other was a little girl, maybe 15 or so. She avoided my eyes and parked herself beside the window. 

The woman kept coming back in the course of the day and the night. I couldn't sleep, but none of the others did, either. I counted about 15 of us sitting around and all trying not to look at each other. Kind of reminds of me of the subway, actually. 

At dawn the lady and the young man returned. The lady spoke this time, in unaccented Mandarin. While she spoke, the man returned an assortment of bags to us. I got my purse back, but without either of the phones. The gun was placed on top of my wallet.

At 10AM they usher us out into separate cars. They're all unremarkable. Hondas and Toyotas, all slightly used looking. In other words, the same cars that you see drive by you every day. I'm in the same car with the businessman. I had a mad desire to shove the driver and steer the car wildly to attract some sort of police attention. In retrospect I probably should have, then I wouldn't be in this situation right now.

My memory at this point is fuzzy. I think the nerves, fear and lack of sleep has something to do with that. Or maybe it was just because they went over the plan earlier, and I'm now on my way as part of a terrorist group to kill the Chinese president. I'm not sure, could be either or. 

I'm only jolted out of my reverie by the crap parking job the driver did. He bumped the curb. Fucking stereotypes. I shake my head and follow the others out of the car. The business man grabs my hand firmly and starts pulling me along towards the convention centre. There's a lot of hubbub, and police cars are parked nearby. They looked relaxed, sipping coffee and chatting with passersby. I manage a weak hello before my partner tugs me away. 

1:30PM. We've been walking around for a while now, taking photos, doing the usual thing. I want to grab one of the security personnels or even yell 'TERRORISTS' at the top of my lungs to let someone know what was happening. I'm afraid of triggering my buddy, though, who seems to grow twitchier as we approach 2PM. If he started firing, even randomly into the crowd, a lot of people would get hurt. 

1:50PM. The delegation was pulling up. Bright red Chinese flags perched on black limos. The area has been cleared for the president to walk through. I'm standing near the end of the walkway, just inside the convention centre's doorways. It's a mark to how trusting the security details are, that they've let me stand there as if I was some fan hoping to shake the president's hand. 

1:55PM. My palms are sweaty. My partner is beside me. He looks right in place with all the other suited men, but he keeps a hand in his pockets. I peeked a moment ago and saw that was where he had the grenade. Ah shit shit shit shit shit. If I yell now he might detonate it and take out half the building. 

1:56PM. The president's delegation is exiting. A perk girl in a neat suit hops out, followed by the vice president. They are chatting with some Canadian officials. I eye the man beside me, and the limo of the president's opening up. Now or never. 

I do the only thing I can think of, and I'm still surprised I didn't hurt any bystanders. Just to be clear, the only experience I've had with shooting were water guns before this. And even then I pretty much only managed to water the lawn. 

"BOMB!" I shrieked. In the momentary confusion as security whipped around to me and the officials dove for the safety of their cars, I grabbed the gun in my purse. You think I'm going to shoot the bastard beside me, don't you? Well I would have liked to but I don't have a clue how to take the safety off. So I did the next best thing. I grabbed it like a stick and smashed it into the man's face. I know, I'm like a natural spy or something. 

2:00PM. I'm lying face down on the floor, with about 200 guns pointed at me and some weight-lifting champion of a police officer holding me down. Not that I'm struggling or anything. I'm just glad their first instinct wasn't to shoot me. The Chinese delegation have been rushed off to some safe location and my businessman buddy was gone. He did leave a puddle of blood from a broken nose, though. 

So yeah, that's what I would have liked to tell you at about 1:56PM yesterday, but things got a little crazy. At least no one got hurt? Well, buddy there did, but he probably deserved that for playing with a grenade and all, eh? 

I don't know what else I can tell you, officers. That's the truth of it. Turns out it's pretty easy to sneak into terrorist organizations. 

Day 16 sleep is taking over my life and the peacock dress

I slept too much today. And somehow I didn't get enough sleep. I blame the stupid prompt from last night that kept me up until 3AM and not the 4 hours I spent on Netflix before writing it. I barely made volunteering today, yawned while interviewing patients, slept through gym with Kass and now it's 2AM and I'm so late for my prompt I might as well write it tomorrow. Except today is tomorrow. Anyways, I'm too sleepy to do a good prompt justice, so we'll reminisce with a non-fiction prompt. Besides, my prom dress was more unique than most fictional dresses you can dream up.

Day 16: What did you wear to prom? How did you get your outfit, and what happened to it?

It wasn't called prom, something about political correctness, but the formal stirred up as much excitement as any prom. At least for me, anyway. My mother imparted on me the importance of style early on, and took on the challenge of dressing me enthusiastically. Most people start prom dress shopping in February or March. I started in November. 

We went through every mall in the GTA, Yorkdale, Square One, etc. I found a beautiful Le Chateau silk ombre dress, silver to dark purple with a bejewelled halter neck. I loved it but it was December and I thought it was too early to be buying a dress, so I let it go. I tried finding it later to no avail.

I had asked my mother what my budget was, and she said within reason. Apparently that included BCBG. I tried on dresses that were $400 minimum in every shade of the rainbow there and exhausted two sales associates, but nothing looked perfect. Nothing was spectacular and made me go 'WOW'. 

Eventually, going into February, I was in a state of panic. I found several dresses I liked in the pile of prom magazines I had, but they were all in the States. I was ready to go south of the border for my dress, but mom suggested we make a stop at Square One again for another try. We parked further away because of how crowded it was and saw a small bridesmaid store. We figured, why not, already tried everything else.

We stopped in, and immediately pulled the perfect dress I'd been eyeing. Watercoloured, silk and backless. I pulled a few other dresses, but this was the one. It was my exact size, too, good thing since they only carry one size per dress. I went to the mall to find my shoes and found them in the first store. Bright purple silk heels with gold accents. I took them back, got the dress altered, and brought it home with me.

Halter neck with pink and dark blue jewels on the waistband, dual-layered silk, hand-painted with zebra prints and floral abstracts in watercolour in pink, blue, black, white, and orange. Two silk black straps crisscrossed and backless otherwise. It was gorgeous and the perfect dress for the 'I'm-so-avant-garde-in-fashion' stage. I had a hot pink purse to go with it, and dark blue flowers in my hair.

There's one particular photo from prom night, with me posing with my butt sticking out. Everyone who saw it said I needed a peacock tail attached there, for how haughty and proud I look of my dress. I don't deny those accusations. 

I've worn the outfit once more, since, to my first formal event in health sci first year. I haven't worn it since. It's still hanging on the door of my closet in its garment bag. I take it out once in a while to admire the fabric, the patterns, how I'd never wear it again, and the leftover foundation stains from when I had to cover acne on my back. 

I've thought about donating the dress, but I love it too much to let it go. I revere it as much as a wedding dress. I forgot one of the important details, the dress was $600. My friends' parents called my mom, asking how she could let me spend that much on a dress I was going to wear once. My mom told them that once was what made it a very special night, and I'd never have another prom again. My next chance to wear a gown might be my wedding day. Consequently my friends' parents all offered to buy them expensive dresses. 

I think I'll hold on to it, just in case there's a black tie art gallery opening or when I need a style inspiration. Or to remind myself not to get too fat that I can't fit into it. You know, whichever comes first. 

Day 15 Cooking frenzy and the rift grows wider

Lots of meal preparations today, in an effort to prevent things in the fridge from going bad. I browned beef and tossed it with a tomato sauce to make fake bolognese sauce, got white wine (comes in a box, weirdly enough, I've never seen boxed wine) for the fondue I'll be making soon, pickled mushrooms with vinegar, lemon juice, sugar and sprouts for a charcuterie, and actual dinner with feta, spinach and asparagus stuffed chicken breasts with garlic mashed potatoes. Now there's chocolate cookies in the oven. Something about the holidays make me want to cook.

Now, today's prompt is a rewrite of yesterday's, opposing view. I draw my inspiration from a concrete poem I read once, from a random poetry book someone passed onto me. Themes in Journey, I think it was. It was a rich man and a poor man, separated by a visual rift of words, and the rift only grows wider as they move on. I definitely don't do the poem justice, but it's interesting to write about all the same.

Day 15: Rewrite the above story from the point of view of a wealthy stockbroker who ends up in the poorest part of town.

The man did not stand out in Toronto's busy financial district. He wore the same Italian wool-crepe suit, tailored to him by the same tailor who did all of his colleagues' suits, too. He had a slightly whimsical tie in the pattern of dark green fern leafs, to show his acknowledgement that it was the holiday season. Instead of reaching up high to reveal a flashing gold Rolex as men like him did in older times, or even pull out a pocket watch before that, he withdraws a sleek Blackberry to check the time. 

Normally he would walk or taxi (because he has money to burn on waiting for taxis in traffic) the two blocks home to his shiny, newly constructed condo with a view of the lake and the CN tower. He shared that walk with many of the other suited men and women down the street. They carried the same Hermes messenger bag for business, and the women tied the same patterned scarf around theirs. 

Today, instead of picking up lychee beef from that new Thai place on Front St., or sashimi and edamame from the Japanese place raved about by foodies, or even the deli that specialized in more than 30 kinds of bread catering to every diet for some artisan sandwiches, he hopped on the subway.

The subway's a farm of well-dressed sheep, he thought, eyeing his fellow passengers. That man had the same Rolex watch under his crepe shirt. Everyone avoided eye contact, as if it would somehow transmit terrible diseases if they were to catch another looking at them. He was different, though, he told himself. This was not his daily routine. He would never mindlessly sit here, listening to music or reading...God, who the hell reads erotica on the subway? He turned away in disgust from the middle-aged woman in canvas sneakers. 

Four stops down, he looked up to the glowing map, marking their position. He was going to an important dinner with some very wealthy investors. Unfortunately, they lived well out of the downtown core and the congestion meant he would miss dinner by a good two hours. So he braved the subway today. 

At two stops away, they stopped moving. He huffed and looked angrily at the speakers, as if they were responsible. An apologetic voice came on.

"We are sorry to inform everyone that the recent rainstorms has caused some structural damage up ahead. We have to ask all passengers to get off here, make your way above ground to St. Patrick's Station, which is two stations away, then return to the subway if you need to continue your trip. Our attendants will be happy to direct you or help you find other methods of transportation, thank you for travelling with the TTC today."

He scowls down at his phone and makes a bee-line for the opening doors. He hurries up the stairs, because he is in good shape from frequent gym trysts and a dedicated and perky personal trainer. Outside, he studied the unmoving traffic, his phone again, then made the decision to walk the last two stops. 

He has never been in this part of the city before, despite having lived here for more than six years. Most of his routines revolved around the financial district, or dates in the entertainment district. Certainly not this seedy, half-residential half-money loaning area. A sketchy looking Chinese restaurant with a generic 'Chan's Chinese Food' is all he needs to know about this place. No upscale Asian-fusion cuisine here. 

Construction blocks off the main street, and he is, annoyed and sighing, forced to take side detours. He walks down a largely residential area. He would bet houses are cheap here, given their distance from the downtown core. His suite could probably buy up two of these houses. 

A child, his skin dark with both his heritage and days in the sun, runs out of the sub-standard house. He's laughing, looking behind him while another boy follows him, yelling something about pirates. They dash across the street and into another decrepit looking house. The man shakes his head. His friends' children were well behaved, in matching Burberry sweater sets and talking about their latest accomplishments. 

He glanced over at the door left open by the children and shook his head again. His home was guarded with the highest quality alarm systems that he could monitor over his phone. I guess they have nothing to lose, he thought, then remembered his own expensive home theatre set, expensive gaming system and several bank accounts worth of clothing. 

Almost there, now. On his right was some charity store. Two people, a young couple with a child in tow, were leaving the store laden with bags. They were strapping what looked like an old table set to the top of their dinky car. The man flicked his gaze away. He had the newest imported wood furniture. He caught drifting of their conversation, the couple appeared to be thanking the owners for their generosity. He's never needed anyone's charity. 

Later, seated at the fine restaurant overlooking a private country club and sipping his martini, the man remembered seeing a group of people getting together for a potluck in the poor streets. They were gathering in a barely fenced in backyard. They had those awful Wonderbread sandwiches and canned pop. They were laughing and setting up mismatched lawn chairs around an old table. 

The man shook the memory off and broke off a piece of the freshly baked foccacia bread and waited for his clients to arrive. Ugh, too much rosemary, he thought.

___....____....

If this looks like crap it's because I couldn't write this for four hours... Tough prompt.

Day 14 Chocolate apocalypse and the other side

Christmas shopping today at the outlets at Niagara. The Lindtt chocolate outlet looked like it was the last place in a zombie apocalypse, and people were snatching up chocolates like they've been rationed for the past 200 years. I admit, I bought 100 Lindtt chocolates, but I'm not eating them. Well, not all of them. Just a few. I've only had one strawberry and cream I'll have you know. They're for stocking stuffers. Also got some work clothes, a fondue pot, and delicious charcuterie. YUM!

Day 14: Write a story from the point of view of a homeless man or woman who falls asleep on the bus and accidentally ends up "on the other side of the tracks," in a quiet neighbourhood late at night. 

The cheerful-looking young couple in coordinating dark blue and white outfits, prom king and queen of the moment, hops off the bus with a cheerful 'good night!'. The bus driver waves back with a smile and pulls away. Good, they're finally gone. I can't stop myself from glaring at them sullenly while they walk away, holding hands and laughing in the fresh snow. They've spent the past six stops giggling in each other's ears and snuggling together. 

I huddle against the window and stare out at the busy city streets. We'll be getting to my stop soon, sort of my stop I guess. It's close to a homeless shelter. I hate that word, homeless. It's true, unfortunately. My bad judgements, general bad luck, and the country's bad economy leaves me in my old maroon coat, with my hood up and ignoring eye contact with the other bus occupants. I would rather avoid the embarrassment of admitting that I have no where else to go, but at least the shelter is warm and I can eat. 

We've hit traffic. I sigh and lean against the window. Seeing the downtown district turn to seedier housing and money marts slowly, I doze off and dream vaguely of loose coins dancing. Then the bus driver is shaking me awake.

"Excuse me, ma'am? Is this your stop?" 

I blink confusedly at her. Not wanting to seem dumb, I nod quickly and jump off the bus. There are beautiful houses here, large Victorian or Tudor homes with manicured lawns, big front yards and warmly lit windows. Every house was draped with colourful Christmas lights, some adorned with reindeers on the roof or an outdoor Christmas tree. 

Lakeview Crescent. Of course, I know where this is now. I've driven past here in better days and dreamed of buying one of these houses someday. They're not the richest neighbourhood in the entire city, but definitely one of the nicer areas. The houses on the right side back onto a view of the lake. 

I'm far away from my stop, but I don't have any coins for a bus ride back. Preparing myself for a long and cold walk, I pull my hood up more and start the trudge back. 

Four houses down a pair of carlights shine directly at me. I freeze momentarily then shuffle on. The shiny silver Lexus pulls up to one of the houses, graced with glittery snowman decorations and a laughing St. Nicholas. A woman in an elegant black wool coat steps out first, slinging her shiny designer purse over her shoulder. I stare, mesmerized by the bright gold buckle on her purse. She opens the back seat and pulls out a little girl, wavy blonde hair tied with a dark red ribbon. Same colour as my coat. I grimaced at the difference between my stained coat (how did it even become stained?) and her velvet ribbon. A man, presumably her husband, jumps out last, also in a black wool coat and scarf. He laughs at something the little girl says, then reaches into the trunk of the car for several shopping bags with wrapped gifts popping out of them. I hear the word Santa Clause float back to me as the picture-perfect family walk into their magazine-perfect home. The little girl's gaze glazes right over me. She doesn't even notice me. Even at this tender age she knows that people like me aren't worth noticing and can be treated as invisible. 

I kick a tuft of snow and keep walking. The blinds are drawn in almost every window, but I can see warm light peeking out from them. From one house I catch the unmistakable waft of butter. I wonder if they're making Christmas cookies. I used to make them, shaped in little men, stars, and trees. 

The streets are quiet, peaceful with a new dusting of snow falling. Tomorrow, I guessed, that little girl would be out here in the snow, rolling around in some cute pink snow suit with her young father. I would be lined up outside the employment centre, hoping someone will hire a certified accountant. I keep walking and leave the quiet neighbourhood behind.  

Day 13 The season of Christmas dinners and a generous collection of prompts

So early dinner with my very good friend and soon-to-be bride friend Kass today. I think we know each other too well. She got my Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I got her a tea pot with green and black teas to brew with. We both love exactly that. Now I just have to make desserts and she makes tea. Perfect.

Dinner was delicious. We went to a Chinese buffet restaurant and had lobsters, crabs, and piles of desserts. Kass didn't touch the shellfishes, she's allergic. I didn't touch the chicken balls. They're offensive.

Now to work off that fat by finger presses.

Day 13: 

Prompt 1: A beginner's guide to getting noticed

So you want to get noticed, eh? Well, see that pole over there? Yeah that one with the grey cement. Why don't you run towards it. That's it, don't stop. Now, this is very important and will definitely get you noticed. Sprint at your top speed smack into it. 

What's that? That's dumb? Well, yeah, no shit Sherlock. You wanted to be noticed, not adored by the public. It's easy to be noticed. You can rip off all your clothes and dance in the middle of the street. Not New York though. You could shake your dick in New Yorker's faces and they wouldn't notice you. Try doing that in some isolated Muslim-centric village. You might get stoned to death, but you'll be noticed. 

Oh, you want to be admired, you say? Well being noticed isn't the only way to go about it. You can be noticed because you're good looking, or because you're god-awful looking and should have an iron mask locked on. You can be noticed because you're this year's Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, or because you waved a gun manically outside the White House and got arrested. 

What am I trying to tell you? You don't need a guide to be noticed. Why the hell did you think this book was only a few pages long? You do need a guide to succeed. Succeed wildly in what you do and you will be noticed. Succeed in living a good, happy life, then you won't need to be noticed. 

Now, go forth and prosper. 

Prompt 2: Tenth Anniversary

On our first date, you bought me roses because that's what the movies do.

On our first anniversary you knew me better, and bought me an orchid.

On our second anniversary we fought, but you came home just before midnight with a grocery store bouquet. 

On our third anniversary I was in the hospital with pneumonia, where real flowers aren't permitted, so you folded the best origami you could manage. 

On our fourth anniversary we were in Maui, so you woke me up with a room full of hibiscuses. 

On our fifth anniversary you were away on business, so I asked the hotel to leave a vase of daisies in your room.

On our sixth anniversary we both forgot about it, and ran into each other at the grocery store florist.

On our seventh anniversary we were out hiking, and you picked me a handful of wild lavender.

On our eighth anniversary we were drifting apart, and you thrusted a handful of baby's breath at me - I hate baby's breath.

On our ninth anniversary we were separated, and I bought myself a dozen roses to fill an empty spot.

On our tenth anniversary I'm standing in front of you with roses,  asking you if you missed me too.

Prompt 3: Being chased by a killer

They will come for you. They are a silent, deadly killer with 100% results. No one walks away from an encounter with them alive. They are not a plural. There is only one of them. No one knows if they are female or male. No one knows how old they are, what their motive is. No one even knows the pattern in their skills. But they do kill. They are proficient and come randomly for victims.

You spend your life trying to dodge them, but they have their target sight on you. You drive a big, hefty car that's a variable tank on the roads, lest they try to run you off. You swear every car that cuts you off, weaves dangerously in front of you is them, closing in. 

You eat only safely prepared, organic foods, straight from the farm where they can't have tempered with it. Whenever you can you cook yourself, so no one can temper with it. 

You train at the gym daily. You live on the treadmill to prepare to outrun them someday. You leg press, shoulder press, arms press to have enough muscles to fight them if the need arise. 

You wire your house with the best professionals. You have the engineers check, double check, then triple check every wiring to make sure they are safe, and your house will not go up in flames with you in it. 

You spend more than 70 years training, trying to avoid them. But they have caught up to you at last. Your muscles have weakened, your stomach has weekend, you can no longer drive straight on the road. You fall in your own home. You know it is inevitable, now. They have at long last caught up and have you sighted. And truth be told, you're relieved. Old age has caught up. 

As you lean back in your hospital bed, surrounded by your children and grandchildren, you know that you are done running. You stop the chase and walk on with Death together. 

Prompt 4: On becoming a tycoon 

"Congratulations class of 2015. Now, I've been invited here for the prestigious honour of addressing you, you the new grads, the new generation, the one who will save us or destroy us. Apparently I've been chosen because of my wise business choices that brought me to you as a Fortune 500 CEO. I can talk at you for a good 40 minutes, drone about the important choices you have to make, your duty to your country and your fellow humans. I can natter at you until you bore of me, on topics of religious tolerance, equality for all and plead for world peace. But I'm not going to do that.

None of you are stupid. You sit before me as some of the brightest minds of this generation. Perhaps amongst you is the next Albert Einstein, who will at once inspire and doom us all. Or the next Bill Gates, who will revolutionize our perception of technology, for better or worse. But I'm not here to preach to you about your future potentials, either. You all know your potentials, you all know how good and smart you are. 

I'm going to tell you how to be a tycoon instead, because that's what I know best. 

There are a few steps to being a tycoon, and I've been through each one. So let's go through them.

Step 1: Think of something new. You don't have to invent the new jet pack, you just have to find a niche market and take advantage of it. Who would have thought of a stick to let people take selfies as a revolutionary invention? But they're sitting up a multi-million dollar patent and making money hand over fist. 

Step 2: Give your all to the design and get it off the ground. I do mean your all. All your time otherwise spent sleeping, going to the gym or going out with that cute guy from the coffee shop. All your time that would have been spent on family dinners and romantic escapades. All your energy otherwise devoted to playing with your cousins, or volunteering with children who looked to you as a mentor. All your brain capacity, otherwise dedicated to reading the complete works of Shakespeare, writing that novel, or painting an abstract. 

Step 3: Lose everything. Giving it your all means giving up your all. You give up your health because you don't have energy to exercise or eat healthily. You give up your relationship with your family, who enjoy your passion but miss your presence. You give up your partner, who loves you but feels slighted and neglected by your work. You might even give up your home, because you poured all your money into this idea. Be ready for the shit storm.

Step 4: Keep going and persevere. You've given it too much, now. Don't stop. Let the rest of your life fall by the wayside, there'll be time enough when you're 45 to fix them. You can remarry, have children, and give them the best they'll never even dream of.

Step 5: Self-realization. I'm at here, now. This is the last step of your journey to tycoon-dom. Realize that you have what you worked for, but nothing else. You have a company, vice-presidents who trip over their own feet to please you, secretaries who bring you coffee and tell you you'r 9 o'clock is in the conference room. You have more money than you know what to do with, so you buy a yacht. You buy mansions in California. You buy cottages in Maui. You buy cabins in Aspen. You keep buying. 

You flirt with that gorgeous Victoria's Secret model, or the Calvin Klein underwear model. You go on dates with other uber-rich magnates, to St. Lucia for a first date, or to Paris for a dinner fling. But you can't find them again. That person you gave up for this life. Maybe that person was the reason you wanted to make money, so you could build a good life together. 

Your friends tell you how envious they are of your new Ferrari two-seater. You are privately envious of their Ford family van, filled with laughing, screaming messy children, who grin at their parents and hit each other with toys. 

What's that? Sounds like an empty life, eh? I know, you're right. I didn't come here to tell you how to live a good, healthy, happy or worthwhile life. I came here to tell you how to be a tycoon. And now you know. 

You can be whatever you want to be. You can be a tycoon. You can be a mother, a father. You can be a park ranger or a Nobel Laureate. Each of them have their own lives and their own ups and downs. 

Once again, congratulations class of 2015.

So what are you waiting for? Get out there and see who you want to be."

Day 12 snow snow snow and a disappearance

We got some heavy snows today! Flurries my ass. It was suppose to be an exhausting day with errands, but everything was cancelled because of the crap road conditions. Fine by me. I got enough of that walking to the gym today. Yes I fell off something. Leg press this time. I fell between the crack of the seat and the foot-board. I'm so good at this guys.

Day 12: The missing software engineer

This has got to be a set-up. Can't be real. It's a fucking movie scene here. 

The man's dark hair was damp and matted, his skin sweaty and, in several places, marked by long red whip marks. He licked his dry lips uselessly and sagged against the bindings holding him up against a post. He felt drained, exhausted after what he had just been through. Unbidden, his gaze flickered to the guilty-looking laptop bag in the corner of the darkened room. His work was in there, countless encoded and secretive documents for the military contractor company he worked at. As per terms of the work agreement, he kept quiet about what he did. It wasn't like he had that much to give away to the lay person anyway, as software designs were only part of a very large plan that went into designing any weaponry. 

Standing in a sunny, well-furbished office, director John Caines worried. His head software engineer, Blake Michaels, had gone missing. No sick call, no car-broke-down excuse. A normal director might think a family emergency, or perhaps the man's phone had died. Caines worried that this was an attack. They didn't program the newest shooter game or antivirus software here, after all. And they were just on the verge of pushing out a new, very secretive and very very effective weapon design. 

Perhaps it was the Russians. They seemed to be making a bid for a superpower again. Perhaps China, though they had their own elite programming teams. North Korea? Caines doubted they'd be able to kidnap a turnip from his garden. Then who?

 The heavy door opened, letting in a flood of light. Blake raised his head heavily to hear heels click-clacking towards him. It was her, back again. He felt his body reacting to the memory of her tantalizing him with her whip. 

"Back already?" he croaked, then sighed in reprieve as she offered a glass of water to him. When he finished, she splashed the rest on him.

"That should keep you going for a while longer." 

Blake shivered at her well-manicured finger nails. They traced a pattern down his bare back, then circled around his waist to grab his crotch. He let a moan of desire escape him. This was his favourite game.

"Now then, I'm going to let you down, and you're going to come to the bed. Then you're going to make me come. Over and over again." 

Blake could go with those instructions. When his hands were at last released, he hurriedly went to the bed where his wife Ashley stretched out, still dressed in the black leather dominatrix costume he bought her. While busily undoing her corset, he gazed at his briefcase again. Work could wait.

Day 11 Slept through my deadline and silk is lavender

So my sleep schedule has been all kinds of screwed up lately. I've been going to bed around 4-5AM and waking up around noon or later. Today I forced myself to wake up early, then passed out until now. Oops. Maybe I should consider caffeine to help me through the day.

Day 11: Write from the point of view of a person who has synesthesia (a condition in which one type of sensory stimulation evokes a different sense, as when hearing a sound produces the visualization of a colour). 

I never thought of myself as odd until my mother tried to teach me an appreciation of expensive fabrics. I think it was after I asked her why she was spending $100 on a piece of fabric to tie around her neck. She took the raw silk scarf, hand painted with Hokusai's the wave painting, and offered it for me to feel. 

"Do you feel that? It's liquid smooth," she told me then. I told her it felt like lavender. She was confused. The scarf was predominantly blue and white. Where would lavender come from? I kept insisting that it was lavender. My mother, bless her, had an inkling of what I was talking about. She handed me another silk scarf. 

"This one feels like more grey muddled into the lavender." 

My mother looked at me silently for a moment, then told me it was a rougher silk, not as high quality. 

We had fun experimenting with all the different textiles in her closet. Her favourite petal pink tweed suit felt clean white to me. The red Prada leather heels were black. My mother's hands, each time she handed me something, felt like a warm peach-cherry that I can't quite place or find on any colour spectrum.

I told my father he felt like a forest-like green. Both green and brown but not hazel. Maybe a touch of dark blue, too. My best friend, Mimi, registered as vibrant orange that pulses pink. My cat is, her orange fur notwithstanding, a comforting dove grey/robin blue that I can only compare to a blanket I'd want to wrap around myself. 

When I got older I tried to explain to my significant others. Some of them were understanding, even amused. Others just didn't get it. "You can't FEEL colours, that's not possible," claimed one fellow. He felt like harsh black and white. 

My husband, when I first dated him, felt like waves of calming, water blue. He didn't ask me to report on the colour of everything I touched, but always listened when I discovered a new colour. I was sometimes frustrated trying to explain a colour that just doesn't exist, but he and his blue calmed me down. 

When we married, my lace white dress felt golden, the colour of sunlight and, I know this is cheesy, but hopeful. Like the golden brick road. 

Holding my newborn daughter now, she feels like a still blending pale blue, with traces of yellow. It's not green, it's just blue and yellow at the same time. Years later she would tell me, "Mama, your voice is so pretty. It sounds like silver and blue." 

Day 10 trivia night and I have come for your soul

I'm late I'm late. Huge mess at the hospital today. We have a viral infection in the biggest ward right now and the playroom was shut down all day. Parents were not in the best mood. Luckily the kids are mostly okay, we have everyone on droplet precautions so all the healthcare workers are running around in masks, gowns and gloves. I got to play IT instead, trying to fix our game systems without so much as a screw driver. Oi.

Anyways I'm late because we had trivia night tonight at Collins. We had an argument over whether jaundice is an illness or a symptom of liver disease. I think the latter.

Now onto the prompt.

Day 10: You are the Grim Reaper. Write three different opening paragraphs for your autobiography, trying out very different styles. 

You all come to me someday. Some of you come to me unwillingly, pleading that there had been a mistake. You tell me about the dearest woman you're leaving behind, or the helpless son, or the dependent, ageing parent. I try to calm you. They will all come here, some day. There is only too early or on time to come to me, but never has there been someone who was never supposed to come. Some of you, however, come willingly, even gladly. You take my hand, express your surprise that death is a plump matronly woman, and walk on with me. You tell me about all those who have already come to me, and how you have missed them. You are glad that you have finally reached your time. Children, murderers, millionaires and even doctors, who so often wretch people back from me. You all are destined to come back to me. You left me to be born. You come back to me to die. 

All right, all right yatter mouths. God, you had some crap humor when you let humans exist. I can deal with animals. They are born, they live, do their bit, and then die. I pick them up and they treat it matter of factly, just coming with me. But man those humans. I've spent only a small bit of my existence looking after them but they're the biggest pain in my book. I thought mass extinctions were bad, working me around the clock. Nope, SOMEONE had to go make things in his likeness, peh. These humans are always whining. 'Don't take me!' 'Is this hell?' 'I thought you'd look taller...'. For the record, no one in their right mind would run around in a cape. And why would I need a scythe? Not that I don't want one to silence some of these people, but they're already dead. Worst working conditions ever. Especially when we had the flood. Those toga-wearing, laurel-leaf totting pompous dipswitches made lakes out of puddles. At least they tipped. Now it's nothing but dragging people away by their ankles. There's no justice in this world. God has it so much better. 

No, no, not another one. I cradle a still pink and crying scrap of a human baby. Poor thing's neck is wrapped with its own umbilical cord. I unwound it and carry the child on. That's my lot in existence, to clean you up and lead you away from life. So many of you come to me as a bloodied mess or a sobbing wreck, but I will fix you. Where I take you to is not better than life. It's not even different. It's incomparable and beyond your mind until you have reached it, the way a line of a piece of paper cannot appreciate the hand that has drawn it into existence. I try to tell you that. You are the young girl with make-up streaked eyes that I wipe dry, and bloody criss crosses on your arm. You are the old man, clutching your crutch and hoping to see your love that passed on 20 years ago to me. You are the soldier, crawling to me with twisted or lost limbs that I repair. Then you, all of you, walk on with me. I have loved each and every one of you since you came into existence as you know it, and I will walk with you as you leave it. Now come, stop crying my dear, and walk with me. 

Day 9 lazy dinner and mini prompts

Today's kind of off. My still new Galaxy S4 suicided itself last night. The volume button got stuck and kept booting it into an error screen. Took most of the night and this morning to disassemble the phone, unstick the button, factory reset and restore everything. My contacts still don't have names. I'm looking back in messages to see who everyone is. A lot of 'Who was I planning to go to dinner with three days ago...?'

I'm tired and don't want to cook. Grocery store ready-made-meals for dinner.

Running on practically no sleep and after falling off the elliptical at the gym (I seem to fall off at least one equipment per gym trip), I'm gonna keep today short. That and my laptop's super low on batteries and I can't find the charger.

Day 9:

Prompt 1: The smell of a place you love

The bread section of the local grocery store. God I love it there. Is there anything better than the smell of freshly baked bread? 

I'm never able to walk past it without a new crusty Italian loaf, a French baguette that invariably smacks someone in the face, or a few dinner rolls to go with the chicken marsala. 

There's something about that wheaty smell, so fresh and saliva-inducing. It makes me feel like a legit foodie, picking out fresh bread to go with dinner that night. I'm still crap at cooking compared to most of the food bloggers, but it makes me happy to be slicing up thick wedges of Italian with the creamy chicken and mushroom. 

Prompt 2: What you ate for breakfast

Hoy, I sound real healthy today. After the late night and early morning, McDonalds was the only acceptable meal. 

The greasiness with perfect gooey cheesiness of the McMuffins. There's something about them I associate with both early mornings and long days. 

And somehow that tiny little sandwich kept me full until dinner, despite it being about 8AM between my two meals. No doubt it has the same calorie content. 

Prompt 3: Pregnant and lost

"Help me! I'm lost, please help me! I have to get home, I'm pregnant!" As if to emphasize her point, the heavily pregnant woman held her swollen belly. She waddled towards the bemused young man in a uniform green apron. "My husband left and now I can't find him. I don't know where home is."

The young man gaped for a moment wordlessly. Then he managed, "perhaps he's down in the dairy section."

"Honey, stop being melodramatic. I got your damn peanut-butter ice cream here. You hate peanut butter. Why do you want this again?" Escorting his pregnant and distraught wife, the man turned around to the still confused grocery store worker. "Pregnancy hormones is a bitch," he advised drily, then went back to convincing his wife that he only left her for all of two minutes for ice cream.

Prompt 4: Getting hit by lightning

I hear lightning never strikes twice. The electrical patterned scars down my back is a testament to that. I've come to be okay with them, then adapted to them as my unique quality, almost like a mistaken tattoo. 

So why the hell do I feel the same electrical cracking in the air around me? I know this feeling, this momentary fuzziness to the air. 

I wake up in the hospital later, another set of lightning bolts down my right leg. How'd I get so lucky? Maybe I should buy lottery tickets. 

"Mr. Larken? You're looking just fine. But the doctor asked me to let you know that you shouldn't mountain climb during electrical storms."

Day 8 new attempt at poisson meuniere and a collection of prompts

So last time I made poisson meuinere the fish was perfect. Cod filets with a golden crisp layer and fluffy white fish underneath. The sauce was less nice. My brown butter sauce had too much lemon juice in it and was basically sour oil. Oops. This time my sauce was lovely, sputtering and nutty brown, but the sole I used didn't crispen well. The flour mixture didn't want to stay on. And it was so flaky I dropped pieces everywhere. Good thing there were lots of it to start with.

Prompts have been kind of heavy lately, so let's do something fun.

Day 8: 

Prompt 1: How your cat sees the world

"Meow meow meow. Meow. Meow meow. "

Silly two-legger speaks with heavy accent. Must show her how to meowl properly. 

Mrow. Purr purrr. 

Two-legger approaches food bowl! Rubbing against two-leggers induce feeding habits. 

"Aw, is kitty hungry?"

Two-legger is taking too long. Yell for her to hurry.

Merrow! Meow meow! Mew!

Food. Dry food. Maybe meowling more will produce soft foods in can. 

Purrrr? 

"Eat your food kitty, no treats today. It's bad for your teeth."

No treats. Hmppf. Will throw food up on carpet later in protest. 

Prompt 2: Everyone was laughing, except you

*This is a true story

"Okay, okay, have I got a story for you. Gather 'round kids, and listen to the time your mom embarrassed herself." I beam at my best friend across the sofa and received a look that would have peeled paint in return. Her husband crowed with laughter, knowing the story I had in mind. It had been more than 25 years since that summer's day, but I never let the story go. I did promise to hold it over her. I even brought it up in my speech at her wedding. She chucked a piece of cake at me in revenge. 

"You can tell it if you'd like." I grin at her. She throws her hands up in defeat and buries her nose in the cup of hot chocolate. 

"C'mon, tell us the story already." Serena, 14 years old and as willowy as her mother had been, nudged me. She delighted in memorizing my stories about her mother's mishaps (many and often) and repeating them to her mother frequently. 

"All righty. About 25 years ago now, your mother and I were still in school. We went to the CNE together."

"WHOA. The 'scene' has been around for that long?" Oliver, my nine year old, pronounced CNE as 'scene'. My 13 year old teen daughter Blair clucked at her youngest brother over her texting frenzy. Serena elbowed him for interrupting. I had to smile at how many children we all had now. That day seemed only mere days ago. 

"Yes that long. Now we hadn't been to the place in many years, so we explored a lot. We went to see figure skating, ate artery-clogging foods, and," I paused here to wink at my friend, "the Canadian Armed Forces display. Back then it was just a scattering of tanks, artillery and such in a field. Not quite what it's like now."

I let the kids appreciate that. We had just returned from this year's CNE, and they had been cruising in the fully functional hover boats brought by the Navy this year. 

"Your mother was trying on part of the uniform for fun-"

"Fun my butt. You practically shoved me into it."

"For fun. The fellas helping her get dressed were very nice." I made a face at my husband, who had come to listen in with our 11 year old Lila. The adults in the room got my implication of young men in the military, suddenly tossed into a swarming pool of young women at a giant festival. 

"Anyways, one of the uniforms she tried on was the vest. When they showed her where everything went, one of them mentioned the pockets on the front were for magazines."

An indignant squawk interrupted my story. Serena shushed her mother and turned back to me. 

"You guys all know what magazines are, yeah? Well, maybe not you, Oliver. Actually, this story's not too fun for you. Why don't you go pelt daddy with water balloons." His face dropping at first, Oliver jumped up and dragged his dad outside. I laughed at my husband's look of resignation. 

"So, extra bullets, pretty much. Your mother, in all her infinite wisdom, and who definitely knew this, replied 'LIKE PLAYBOY?' Very very loudly, too. I wish I had a picture of the guys' faces when she said that." I'm chortling, while my friend hides her face. Her husband is howling and slapping his legs. Serena dissolves into giggles with Blair. They were both well old enough to know of the infamous and now very classic magazine. Lila didn't quite get it, but laughed because we were all laughing. 

"Why am I the only one not laughing at this old thing?"

"Because you're butt of the joke, dear."

Day 7 lazy dinner and the final chapter

Hiya guys. Whoever's reading. Or maybe I'm just sending this to the abyss of unread Facebook updates and tweets. Anyways I was planning on making that amazing looking poisson meuniere (fish lightly fried in butter and drizzled with browned butter and lemon juice. I got lazy though, and the jar of port wine liver pate I had in the fridge was tempting me. So I sliced up the baguette I got yesterday, brushed it with olive oil, rosemary and basil, sprinkled with salt and pepper. Perfect for spreading with the pate and a white wine spritzer. Maybe tomorrow for the fish then.

Day 7: The last chapter of the relationship

14 years, you and me. We've been through the highest highs and lowest lows. Just a year ago we weathered my father's heart attack and your mother's kidney failure. Only 4 months ago we finally finished the mortgage payment on the house and took that Alaskan cruise we've been talking about since we first started dating. 

Next month makes 15 years together. 15 years my love. I still love you, you know. Not like I used to. Years ago seeing you made my stomach flutter. The smell of your after shave melted my legs. Even someone mentioning your name in passing made me smile.  I don't feel that way any more. 

We peck each other on the cheek instead of clinging together in kisses. We sleep next to each other instead of with each other. I cook dinner and you tell me about your work day. How Tina from accounting was chewed out my Marcia and you had to mediate the situation. Instead of flowers now you bring home a chicken or a Swifter refills. 

But I love you. I love you like I love my family. You are family. There's a comfort I associate with you, that same feeling of relief and warmth when you come home after a day. If I could equal it, I'd call you that favourite sweater I still have left from my college days. The graduate year printed on it was more than 10 years ago, and it no longer holds the same feeling of prestige wearing it, but it soothes me with its familiarity. The memories of being in it, swaggering down campus with friends in matching sweaters. That's what it's like now. 

I wish you felt the same.

I guess romance is still important to you. I know sex is important to you. I want to ask you to stay, I even know you will stay because that's the sort you are, but it's an empty relationship for both of us that way. 

The divorce papers are under this letter, along with the love journal I've been filling in for 12 years. Do you remember when I bought it? We were in Stratford, in the bookstore wasting time until my dental appointment. I bought the red and heart printed journal, filled with prompts of what our relationship is like. Things like 'What was going on in your head when you first saw me?'. I just finished. The last prompt was summarizing our relationship. I left that blank. I think this letter suffices. 

Good bye my friend. Your stuff is packed up. You were nice enough to leave me the house. You'll be taking that nice sports car you got at 30, midlife crisis I guess, eh? I teased you for it for weeks. I'll be hiding in the kitchen, taking solace in making that chicken dish you hate. 

I love you. And this is the story of us. 

- The Love Journal - 

Day 6 I know I know I'm late again and the white shirt

Cooking evidently interferes with my ability to write on time. Okay, no, I just have a crappy sleep schedule right now that has me sleeping at 5AM and waking up well past noon. But I did make a delicious beef stroganoff. Probably as loyal to the original dish as chicken balls are to whatever Chinese dish they were bastardized from, but it was delicious. Nothing quite like beef in thick creamy stew with noodles for a cold day. 

This will be written in the style of the Vogue editorials I spent half my life reading. Both mocking and a sincere tribute to the endlessly verbose women who elevated fashion to high literature.

Day 6: Describe an item of clothing you wear now that someday your son or daughter will want to own. What is it, and why will your child want to wear it in twenty years.

Vogue junior stylist Lacey Wong reminisces on her style - and that one shirt she's kept for more than twenty years.

'I'm 27 now. I developed my own style, far from my mother's soft and tailored closet many years ago. Yet in between the angular black Vuitton jacket from this fall and the trailing grey jersey skirts of my closet is an oddity. White, ruffled, well out of date but still perfectly preserved. 

Ask my mother about my style, go on. I know she doesn't approve. She grew up in the early 2000s, when the likes of Kate Middleton dominated the fashion scene. In an old picture of us two she's wearing a lavender silk sheath dress, paired delicately with cream kitten heels and a petal pink cardigan. She even has me in a little ruffled and floral print dress. In another picture, she's barely 20, perched peacock- proud on a chair in a flawless white chiffon dress with silver embroidery. 

Even now, well into her 50s, mum was still mistaken for my sister on a family trip. Seeing her perfectly fitted, peach linen dress, I can see why she looks young, but not how we could be related. Standing beside her is me, propped up on my black Prada spikes that I brought all the way to Athens. I can see one guy in the background ogling my oversized grey t-shirt, tucked into my trusty black leather skirt and comfy black cashmere shawl. 

When I was young, our mother-daughter past time was shopping. My father didn't approve, he wanted me out hiking and swimming and skiing. My mother liked that too, but only when I had the perfect hiking boots that matched my green khaki shorts and deceivingly common-looking white t-shirt. Or in just the right swimsuit that had a bowtie over the chest. Or the Swiss-imported pink snow suit that earned my 'ski bunny' title for many years to come. 

Whether in J. Crew for perfect cowl-necked sweaters or Coach for the right pale pink work bag with an Hermes scarf, my mother brought me along. In J. Crew she bought me pearl-embroidered headbands. In Kate Spade she bought me the heart-shaped purse with a shiny gold chain. I know girlfriends who would have been delighted to grow up with that. I was, too, for many years. Then I discovered the New York 00's fashion scene. Grunge paired with sky high heels. Black all over. Insouciant messy hair with giant Dior glasses. I was in love.

My mother scowled the first time I came home from university. Instead of the delicate champagne silk ribbon-tie shirt she bought me, I was wearing an oversized black mohair sweater with leather pants. 

It seems like my Swarovski encrusted apple couldn't have fallen further away from the style tree. But when my parents packed up and moved to Florida, as so many older people do now to escape the bitter northern cold, I salvaged through her closet. 

I set away the pink wool vintage Chanel suit to be stored. I pawed through her hundred odd collection of watercolour silk scarves. But I kept a Shakespearean white shirt. It's a strange material, not quite silk and not quite chiffon. Airy, ruffled and sheer, but fitted. Mum said it was older than me. She got it from grandmama. 

She fingered the shirt and smiled. 

"I haven't worn this since I was 19." 

"Then why did you keep it?"

"Because it's beautiful." 

At the time I thought my mother was being sentimental. She tended towards that. But down the years that shirt has stayed with me. I begin to appreciate what my mother enforced, over and over again.

"Look Lacey, look at this colour. It's beautiful." "Feel this muslin, it's a subtle but beautiful fabric."

The white shirt is indeed a thing of beauty. An older beauty, but beauty is beauty. A rose by any other name smells as sweet, and a well-made shirt in any other decade still drapes as perfectly. You want proof? Look at the 50s Dior gowns. 

Mother might not have taught me the angular and I-can-take-on-the-world style I cultivated, but she taught me an appreciation of beauty. She taught me beautiful things deserved to be loved and treasured. I treasure that white shirt now, as she had for over 30 years. 

----....----....----....----....----....----

All right that was awful, I'm sorry to subject whomever read this to it. I hope I've gotten at least a little of the higher-than-thou air that Vogue seems to carry. Next one's more exciting, promise.

Day 5 closet cleaning and a disturbing phone call

Moving soon, and I'm cleaning out my infamously stuffed closet and auctioning clothes off to friends. I've discovered I'm too fat for a lot of my old clothes now, and I really had a thing for bright pink things in high school. I found a pink tanktop with pink buttons with ruffles. That's my excuse for being late and I'm sticking with it. On with the prompt.

Day 5: the most troubling phone call you hope you never receive

We've always had our little quirks. Pet names. Secret jokes. We also called each other randomly. Sometimes it was just "bring milk back with you." Other times it was "What's up?" "I love you." "Love you, too." "Don't forget the milk."

I had a special ring tone for him. It was 'Happy News' on my phone. I think through conditioning I felt happy hearing that ring tone. 

The weekend. Finally. It's been a busy week and he's making dinner tonight. Maybe I'll pick up a cake for dessert. He likes cakes, especially red velvet.

I smile at the ringtone coming from my purse. It's him. I let him ring for a moment while I order the cake. Red velvet with buttercream icing, yum. While the pastry lady is busy I pick up the phone.

"Hi-"

"I've packed up all my stuff. We're done."

"What? Are you crazy? What do you mean?"

"I can't pretend to love you anymore. Good bye."

"FUCK YOU."

I ate that red velvet cake vengefully. At least he left me the cutlery. In fact the only things he took were his computer, game systems, clothes and the paper flower I made for him 2 years ago. He always kept it on his bookshelf. Probably trashed it, that bastard. 

Despite the painful breakup and many months of crappy men, I moved on. I moved, dated, and even got engaged. I always thought he would be my fiance, but I think about him less and less now. Two years is a long time for someone to move on. 

He would have never gotten me the 2.6 carat Tiffany diamond on my ring finger though. He always went in for more quirky and less conventional things with sentimental value. 

My phone rang. That's another thing. I switched all ring tones to the same, generic phone ring. 

I answered without looking at caller ID.

"Hello?"

"I'm looking for Ms. Song. I'm Jenna calling on behalf of Whitehall & Olgensen."

"This is me. What is this about?"

"We will be reading Mr. Eric Dunst's will next month-"

"Excuse me?"

"Mr. Dunst listed you as one of the recipients in the will. Do you not wish to attend?"

"We broke up. He said he didn't love me."

I felt cold. Confused. There must be a mistake. For a moment, I almost felt vindictive. He had died and I was alive with a great man and job and home. I felt the girl's hesitation on the other line.

"Mr. Dunst passed away due to acute myeloid leukemia last week."

In the next month details came out like fragments of a bad dream. His brother confessed tearfully and drunkenly at my door two days after the funeral that he never loved anyone else. He left so he could undergo treatment. He didn't want me to see him deteriorate. Didn't want me to hang over his hospital bedside like I would have done, every day until his body gave out. He was trying to spare me some pain. 

I hate him. Why would he do this? Why didn't he left me be with him? We could have had two more years together. Two whole years. I don't think he knows how much more painful it is the last goodbye I got to say was 'fuck you'. I guess he broke up with me so brutally so I'd never look for him. If I had a chance I'd beg him not to leave me. Then I'd slap the living day lights out of him for even thinking about trying to go through it without me. We went through so much together and he couldn't spend cancer with me, too? 

Sitting in the eerie room, listening to the will, I prayed. I've never been religious and neither has he. But I prayed for there to be a god. I prayed for there to be an afterlife, heaven or hell, where I could see him again. I want to tell him goodbye properly. That I loved him. That I cried every time I sat at the couch and he wasn't beside me. When I watched a movie and couldn't cuddle against his chest. When I slept at night without his arm as my pillow. 

"And to Ms. Song, I leave this Tiffany diamond necklace."

At home I opened the powder blue box, the silver ribbon mocking me. There was the stunning diamond set in platinum necklace. There was also a note. 

His handwriting still sucks, I thought. 

'I know you like diamonds. They aren't forever though. 

I'm sorry. But I love you. Always.'

Lunches and catching up - Day 4 All things are equal when it comes to love

Busy day today. Lunch with a former classmate, gossiping with others, gym that nearly broke my legs. But the big thing is I was stupid enough to list yesterday as day 4. Evidently I can't do math, shame to my Asian heritage I guess. Today is day 4. Now on with it.

Day 4: Pick a country, and imagine we've been at war with it for fourteen years. Write a love story set in that world. (Authors note: all right all right I'm stupid. I forgot it was 14 years. Let's pretend it's 2. We'll catch up with them 12 years down the road another day)

No one could have ever guessed this day was coming. One was always subservient to the other, following them faithfully in all actions. The other was satiated by the obedience of its follower, and pleased by the safety this promised them. 

Canadian Prime Minister Laura Twain scowled at her head of security. He had pulled her out of a meeting on the safest relocation plan for the more than 3 million residents of Toronto. They were at too much of a danger. The major city practically bordered their once friendly neighbour. Power plants had already been shut down and destroyed in a hurry to prevent them from being taken advantage of. Its residents were living with no power and minimal water, with tanks rolling down the once trendy and populated streets. 

Shoved into a secure bunker with only her most intimate team, she turned to glare at the ageing 50-something man. On a normal day he was unassuming, neatly dressed in pressed grey suits and clean white shirts. Today she saw startling awareness and tensed muscles. She also saw the gun in his hand. She had specific rules about that, but he didn't seem to keen about them at that moment. 

"May you now tell me what's happened?" Laura demanded, folding her arms. She was all kinds of offended when he held up a hand for her to be quiet. Dimly, she heard a strange buzzing. The realization that American bombers were now over their crucial capital airspace hit her nauseatingly. 

Claire Monteve didn't believe in many things. In less than two years she had witnessed the deterioration of the Canada-United States relationship. Faced with the greater military power of their southern neighbour, many Canadians at the border fled for the safety of the sparse north. If worst came to worst, the reasoned - and it has - it was easier to hide in the dense forests that characterized most of Canada. 

She was also in a former vacation cottage way out in northern Ontario, but she wasn't here to hide. In fact, she was rather hoping to be found. In the two years of escalating threats and eventual declaration of war, she found something. She found terror, watching a floating armada of US ships approach her lake front home town. She found stress, closing her blinds on Canadian tanks patrolling the town's streets. And she once found herself leaning over a tangled soldier. 

Unable to watch her town be ravaged by war, Claire packed up and left for her family cottage. Her much smarter family flew out of the country for the peace of Russia (the irony of that was not lost on Claire). Perhaps a desperate part of her still hoped things would blow over, even as the news reported Vancouver being swarmed and taken by US naval forces. 

The same day Niagara Falls finally fell and the border crossing blockade collapsed, she heard a flurry of activity from above. Planes. She knew planes. It was flying low. A bomber, she wondered? They hadn't been bombed yet, but she wouldn't discount this being the first day. In one of her less smart moments, Claire popped out to see a dark green balloon tangle itself in the trees. 

At the foot of the tree she saw the problem. 

"You idiot. Did you really try to parachute into northern Canada?" Despite the instant fight/flight reflexes going off at the now unfriendly sight of military camouflage, she had to smirk. Anyone with half an eye could see the problems with jumping into heavily foliaged, wide branched forests. "Couldn't have aimed for a field or a lake or something?" 

She watched the man struggle to free himself, but his arms were twisted enough that the knife in his hand couldn't reach the most important tangles. 

"If I let you out so you don't die a dangling skeleton out here, will you try not to shoot me?" She raised an eyebrow at him and waited for the nod. 

It took some sawing but she got him free enough that he could take care of the rest himself. She saw his sudden movement, halted absurdly midstep, then drop back to a resigned rest. Claire knew a half-hearted grab when she saw one. 

"I don't know what good it'll do you to do anything to me. It's not like we're trading hostages or anything." Claire looked away darkly. Only the other day four students out of a violent protest of hundreds had been caught at Niagara-On-the-Lake. Their bloodied bodies were seen rushing over Niagara Falls. 

After an intense silence, the man spoke. "My pilot got disoriented. We were aiming for central Alberta." 

Claire couldn't help it. She snorted. "Missed it by a little, eh?"

"Ya'll really say eh?"

"You people really say 'ya'll'?" 

It had been five months. Calgary stood strong, likely thanks to pilots who couldn't find the city and ended up over Ontario instead. Vancouver remained in US holding. Toronto was a tense sprawl of stalemate. Montreal declared surrender under duress of bombing on the Notre Dame. Claire kicked her feet, listening to news over the radio of Ottawa being bombed. She didn't think it would come to this. If the capital fell... 

She looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps and remained seated. She had learned some of the patrols were jumpy and trigger happy. There was still a bullet hole on one side of the cottage walls as testament. 

"G'morning ma'am."

"Nothing good about it, gentlemen." 

She smiled thinly at the small cluster of men, dressed in deep woods clothing and carrying guns bigger than her. 

"Seen anything suspicious?"

Claire had struck a delicate deal with them. She would keep them appraised of strange people moving about, and offer an occasional meal. In return they were good about not shooting her. And she got time alone with Michael. 

"Nothing today. Just the usual planes overhead at patrol hours." 

She spoke to the captain, but eyed Michael. 

"All right, all right. You two can stop making googly eyes now. We'll have lunch break here." 

He left two men on guard duty and the rest settled down. Michael followed Claire a little ways away into the woods. 

"I've missed you."

"It's been two days."

"Days are long around here." 

"It's longer when you're marching around, believe me."

They spoke idly, Claire in the crook of his arm. She smiled casually but inside she felt sick. Two years ago they would have been able to hold hands and stroll in public. Now they had to hide and sneak just to sit and talk together. She couldn't imagine anyone was really enjoying this state. People had families and friends cross-borders from decades of peace and co-habitation. Suddenly they were charged left and right for fraternizing with the enemy. She didn't care to think what her crime would be, for letting these patrols slip by and alerting them to nearby Canadian forces. Something something traitor, something something unpatriotic, something something prison. 

Claire sighed. The cataclysm would come. Some day. It could even be today. But it wasn't right now. Right now she leaned into his arms, and tuned in to him enthuse on the latest prank they played on their captain.