Thursday, October 14, 2010


Gabrielle Veilleux checked in to Building Society Bank.

He smiled at himself momentarily, staring at the text message as the television glared unnoticed. This was the third time Gabrielle checked into the bank. Ever since she started using Foursquare, she was determined to become a mayor of something, of anything. So, every day before work, during lunch and after work, she’d visit the bank to make a deposit, withdraw some money or just check her account balance.

Her third check in meant she was on her way home. Finally, he thought, my Gabrielle is coming home. He closed the phone and almost got up to check online just how close she was to becoming the mayor of that bank, but his thoughts were interrupted - BREAKING NEWS in big red letters had caught his attention.

A woman began to speak frantically but clearly: There is an armed man in the Building Society Bank. Police have now vacated nearby buildings and have surrounded the bank. A gunshot has been heard from inside. Police fear the worst.

Gabrielle, he thought, oh no, Gabrielle. He quickly stood up and ran around the house looking for a pair of jeans and his car keys. After moments of searching, he opted on running out as is: shorts, a stained t-shirt, socks and his cell on his hand. He ran. The woman’s voiced played in his head. A gunshot has been heard from inside. Did he shoot Gabrielle? Is she dead? No, he thought, I mustn’t think this. But his thoughts couldn’t diverge from the worst. He thought of her jumping in to save someone from a bullet and lying there, dead, a tragic hero.

But she must be alive, he assured himself as he turned the corner. Just two blocks, he whispered more to himself than the man he just passed by. He wondered if each passing second was her last. Or if any of it mattered. Had her time ended before his run started? He could hear the siren and see the crowd surrounding the scene, eagerly waiting for something to happen.

He felt his pocket vibrate but he urged on. He pushed men, women and children away; nobody was going to stop him. He got passed one cop, but reinforcements kept him at bay. “I must go in and see her,” he pleaded. “My wife, my wife is in there. Please, please let me through. Oh god, let me through…I need to see her.”

The police men ignored his cries but his wish came true. The man came out with Gabrielle in his arms, a gun to her face. “I will kill her if you do not allow me to pass.” The crowd sighed and his world collapsed. Why did it have to be Gabrielle? Gabrielle was crying and her nose was dripping blood. The policemen turned to face the man and he broke free. He ran towards her without thought. He needed her to be safe.

The man shot her in the head. He saw the last of her life in her face, until she fell to the ground, lifeless. He heard other shots and saw the man fall too. He reached down to her and put her head upon his chest. S’il vous plaît Gabrielle, s’il vous plaît ne pas être mort. Gabrielle, Je t’aime. S’il vous plaît dire quelque chose, s’il vous plaît. The blood began to seep into his shirt and he felt warmth. He felt her warmth. He rocked back and forth pleading with her body to make a movement. He felt something vibrate on her jacket and remembered his phone vibrating earlier.

He opened his phone and read: Si je ne m’en sortirais pas vivant, au revoir. Aujourd’hui, j’ai découvert que je suis enceinte. Je veux un garçon. Nous vous aimons Phillip.

Hot tears slid down his face unto the screen of his phone. He had lost two loved ones today. His phone vibrated once more; he subconsciously opened the text and began reading: Gabrielle Veilleux is now Mayor of Building Society Bank. (via)

Thursday, October 7, 2010


Your hands are moving up and down the air in an exorbitant manner. I sit in the front row, your back directly in front of me. Others are watching the show too, sprinkled around the music hall. You are playing the music of the observers, at the beat of stomping feet, hand clasping and impatient finger taps; the sounds of coughs, whispers and jeers mix into a symphony of sound. Your hands gently, but quickly, create a flow of music as the orchestra sits frozen, waiting for a minute gesture to grant them life.

The violinists spring into life with an eerie sound that fills the hall. My heart begins to beat faster. Your hands follow my heartbeat in speed. The violinists play faster, faster, faster. A cellist begins to play at my heart strings. I could hear your heartbeat; it’s thrusting against your chest at the same beat as mine. I listen more intently. The whole orchestra wakes up with a cacophonous sound.

Your hands bend the sound into something beautiful as the orchestra speeds up. Allegro. The sound feels like a river, flowing endlessly out of your hands into me. I submerge myself into it and I feel at home.

With a flick of your hand the sound abruptly ends. The orchestra returns to its frozen state. Then it begins once more, the anticipation for sound; the need to hear more and the yearning to leave clash inside of me. Your hands continue to move up and down at the sound of sweet manipulation and I’m left listening to the music of silence. (via)

Saturday, October 2, 2010


You’d always look at me when we slept together. I felt the warmth of the sun and your smile beam on my face. You began to kiss my forehead.

I ran towards my brother. “You’re dead!” He was too fast for me. Something flew from behind him. It was a black orange, tainted with mud. It hit me in the eyes. I continued blindly running towards him; I knew the place, I’d be alright. I crashed into a pole. My forehead had to be sewn.

I felt your breath on my hair. I suppressed a smile. Your lips met my cheeks. I couldn’t hold the smile any longer. Your lips made a path of small kisses leading to my lips, leaving behind a trail warmness created by my blushing. When our lips met, I felt your smile and I couldn’t help but smile even more. Our tongues met and began to do an intricate dance, a swordfight for dominance.

“Where is my mom?” My aunt hadn’t the slightest idea. She left the kitchen and I was sitting on the kitchen table, alone. I want my mommy, I thought. I jumped off, biting my tongue. A part of my tongue tangled, left unnoticed. Hours later doctors will sew my tongue together. They feared I wouldn’t speak properly.

I whispered, good morning while our lips parted for seconds. It became more passionate. I could feel your heartbeat on me. I could feel your happiness, but I knew long before the kiss was over, long before we were over, that we’d end up separated.

I knew that as your lips pressed against mine you’d become another scar upon my face. I knew then, that you will soon become a distant memory, someone I’d vaguely remember in my old age. (via)

Saturday, September 25, 2010


We were snuggled deep under his bed sheets. I lay there, smiling and thinking about last night. His hand was over my breasts and he was soundly asleep. I thought about how he gently caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. He’d take off his shirt and I’d follow, showing my breasts with erect nipples. He kissed me. He licked me. We made love. The aftermath was just as amazing. We laid there exhausted, never taking our eyes off one another.

He whispered: What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?

I didn’t know it then, but that memory will haunt me for the rest of my life. That idea would form itself in my most vulnerable moments. It would creep up on me like a lioness on a gazelle completely unaware of the danger nearby. No matter how many times I tried to push it to the back of my mind, his voice will resonate in my head – “What happens,” he began again, “when two unstoppable forces collide?”

I didn’t answer. We fell asleep – no other words were uttered that night. The memory of that night will be with me the morning after, during our disputes, when I was happy or sad…it would come at me, forcing me to think of answer. What happens when two unstoppable forces collide? First I heard it in whispers and the more I thought about it the louder the question will become. It was as if I were standing in the middle of train tracks and the question, the train, sped its way toward me. What happens when two unstoppable forces – before the collision, I’d wake from the trance.

We were arguing again; his screams broke the trance.

Saturday, September 18, 2010


I have an array of stories ranging from erectile dysfunction to a suicide note, but I lack the drive to write them down despite how many details I’ve thought out.

I lack a lot of drive actually. There are days (even weeks) where I don’t want anything to do with sex. I skip school habitually because I have better things to do (like sleep or Disneyland). I start tens of projects most which never see the light of day after day one. I get bored too easily, moving on to the more interesting project.

Mostly, I lack the drive to think of something creative for the word ‘drive.’ (via)

Saturday, September 11, 2010


In a letter to his boyfriend, a friend of mine wrote: “I want to be with you forever - in life and death. We will be eternal like stars; rising and falling at the beat of the sun.”

Normally, such feelings are naive - foreign even, but those words reminded me of my very first date. I remember feeling something. I’m not sure what I felt; It was a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. I recognized happiness too, it wasn’t as strong, but it felt like it was sprinkled on there to help me swallow the emotion.

We went to a very Hollywood picturesque first date, the fair. On my way there, my iPod played Blink 182’s “First Date.” I felt this surge of unhappiness. Why would I be asked out? Why all of a sudden? Are the feelings mutual?

It was a very weird feeling; lights flickered, cars seemed to slow down to a halt and breathing took hours. It felt endless. Like if in that moment all that existed were my feelings. There were many highs and lows throughout this frozen state.

A wave of fresh air hit my face and the moment passed. The date ended and days went by, mere seconds compared to that emotion. The worst part of this whole experience is that I’d have to wait an eternity, to sit through a wretched hollow, to feel it again. (via)

Saturday, September 4, 2010


Breathing is ephemeral. I find the act of breathing interesting. During the inhale and exhale of breathing, many noteworthy events can occur, but at the same time nothing can happen. A breath of air is in essence useless, but it carries life.

In an effort to catch my thoughts, to translate the impulses of axons into words, I decided to hold my breath. I thought if I can freeze this moment, if I can stop in the middle of the journey, I’ll be able to collect my thoughts, to reach a conclusion.

Sadly, my lungs cannot stop the unavoidable and I have to take a breath. If I had to get my point across, if I had to convey the complexity of my thoughts I would have to be concise. But my thoughts race too fast for my fingers to keep up; they’re always turning a sharp corner, chasing an obscure tangent thought.

But it’s still not enough and any second my lungs will give in. I’ll finish the journey, a little bit closer to the end of the thought maze but never finishing. And just when I exhale, I’ll be wishing for another breath. I’ll be wishing to hold on a little longer so I can get closer to the end of that thought. (via)