“What the...?” Sam Turner rebounded from his inner musings and a sweat sprung from his forehead. His reaction – his foot slamming onto the brake pedal – was delayed and exaggerated. He realised his mistake immediately and released but, the effect was already in place. Had he not been lost in his thoughts, he would

Blue Monday

Sam Turner resurfaced from his thoughts as the subway rumbled and squealed into St. George Street station. He watched a number of University age young people descend along with a miscellaneous collection of other citizens. Moments later, the doors chimed and the train rushed into the darkness of the tunnel. Sam did not know entirely where he

The Reality

No dream can compare Marc Levesque did not much care for fantasy considering it to be mostly a waste of time especially since the woman who was the object of those intruding thoughts of intimacy, Patrice Charlebois, was likely beyond his reach. Still, lying in his darkened Québec City hotel room, listening to the annoying buzz of the


Club 41 on King Street West Club 41 is what it is – it is certainly not now, nor can ever be, a product of my expectations as I am not doted of the gift of rearranging quanta in order to make of reality, past and present, the image of my desires. That is something that, I think, I need to remember. Club 41, named only for its address


Ted Allenby awoke and opened his eyes. He immediately regretted both actions. With a groan for his aching head, he carefully rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling knowing that it would be impossible to fall asleep again. His eyes felt gritty and swollen and there was a rancid taste in his mouth. He tried to lick his lips which were