He tried not to focus on his slight chance of dying on the operating table. The metal tools and lasers with which the surgeons would operate could easily sever a key vein or muscle leading to his brain, although such incidents rarely occurred, the doctors had said. He had then been told that the most likely negative result of the surgery was of it having no effect at all, and he would continue to be blind.

Instead, he thought of his wife. He had been told so many things about her, things whose meanings he hoped to soon find out. Things like, that she had deep blue eyes and beautiful orange hair, although she vehemently protested the "beautiful" label. The names of those colours meant nothing to him; finally being able to know what they were was another aspect of vision he anticipated. But, his greatest motivation for wanting the surgery to be a success was, by far, his wife.

Though, he recalled playfully, not all of his reasons for that were entirely pure. Throughout their sex life, he had played slave to his wife's dominatrix, never wanting to assume control and end up fumbling with a process she could glide them through. She transformed his blindness into something erotic, until last night, when his excitement to see had sent him into depression at having to wait one night longer.

That night would come, at the end of this day. If all went well on the operating table, he could be watching, as soon as this very night, when he and his wife made love.

—
From a short story,
4/27/2002

Despite that few could see her beauty through these factors, Emily could always. Tessika had blossomed much like her father had, turning suddenly from a startlingly-pale blonde to a ravishing natural brunette in elementary school. She was gorgeously tall—a gift from both sides of her breeding. Her hair had been dyed jet-black since the eighth grade and reached to her waist in long, fine tendrils that ended in bright red and purple wings. Her eyes, in contrast with her dark attire, were a shade of blue-green that could spit fire, blast ice, and shoot daggers all at once, but whose joyful sparkle could not be rivalled even by all of her glittering chains.

Only when a tear dropped into her coffee did Emily realize that she was crying. Quickly she set the mug down on the table and stood, wiping angrily at her eyes with the back of one hand.

"Mom!" The familiar call of Tessika echoed down the hallway. "Mom?"

"Yes," Emily responded, hearing the shuffling approach of her daughter's slippered feet and slumping back into her chair. "I'm out here. What do you want?"

Tessika emerged in the hall entryway, her arms bracing the jambs, her torso leaning through. "Could you watch Euphoria for awhile? Trevor wants to take me out to dinner."

One decision for which Emily prided her daughter was the unique name Tessika had chosen for her baby: Euphoria Whisper. Nonetheless, she was never fond of being asked to babysit. She sighed heavily, her fingertips coming up to press at her temples. "Tess, I can't. What have I told you about this baby?"

Tessika curled her black-painted lips into a contemptuous snarl. "This is about Trevor, isn't it? I know you don't like him."

"That's not true. I just clearly remember what I told you when you came to me and told me you were pregnant. I told you that this baby was—"

"My decision, not yours," the girl recited with an angry roll of her eyes. "And if you'd wanted another kid, you'd have had one."

"Exactly. Euphoria is yours to take care of."

At her mother's solemn rebuff, Tessika deepened her scowl. "Yeah, okay. Well, I just thought I'd ask. Thanks anyway." Her dark head disappeared back into the hallway, and seconds later, Emily heard the loud, reverberating slam of Tessika's bedroom door.

—
From a short story,
12/07/2001

Instead, there would only be Jessica, swearing like a sailor as she begged for the highest dose of painkillers the hospital staff could legally give to her. There would only be Jessica, her hospital gown barely concealing her tattoos, her bright blue mascara streaking down along her face as her tears of pain flowed, and memories raced through her head of just a few hours earlier when her water had broken in the midst of a violent mosh pit, signalling the impending two-weeks-premature arrival of her illegitimate baby.

Good, thought Jessica bitterly, but coupled with the pain that was tearing through her, her prediction was nearly enough to cause her to faint. Forcing down her panic, she clutched her stomach protectively and began tentatively working her way through the gyrating crowd.

—
From a short story,
10/07/2001

"W-what?" murmured Emily, still not daring to glance up.

There was a pause, and then the distinct smell of cigarette smoke filled the air. "Corrie likes Matt McCoy," the female voice informed her, her tone implying that what she had revealed was an extremely-important piece of news.

Blinking tears from her eyes, she glanced up to find that her friend Thomasina had perched on the ground beside her to inhale the tang of her nicotine. Her throat stung, whether from the smoke's odour or from the hard sobs begging to come bubbling back up. She wanted to cough, wanted to jump up and run from her friend, wanted to scream that she cared not for the name of Corrie's crush of the week. Instead, she wet her lips and, tentatively testing her ability to speak with a clearing of her throat, murmured, "Tell Corrie . . . he has a steady girlfriend. They've been going out since like, grade eight or nine. Well, Jody graduated when I was in grade nine."

"Oh." Thomasina tapped her ashes onto the ground and watched the little pile smoulder to its death in the damp grass. "Well, that sucks."

Gasping softly, Emily let her head drop back into her lap; her tears could no longer be contained. This was what everybody else considered a bad situation—liking a guy who was taken. What had happened to her was far worse.

—
From a short story,
10/14/2000

She grimaced, partly as a result of the pain, and partly because she had realized that nobody would be coming in to help her out now. The girls only ever started in on this after the bell, although Alecia did not recall having heard it. Instinctively, she ground her teeth and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, vainly attempting to black out of what she knew was about to happen.

Every morning, she fought with herself over whether or not to bother wearing underwear, considering how often it was torn to ruin. In the end, though, she always decided that the thin scrap of fabric was wise to wear, for its slight protection if nothing else. She did not want to find out how the girls would react if she were to throw a spoke into their routine.

She tried her hardest to focus on a tune in her head. Something loud, preferably heavy metal, she thought, to drown out their usual catcalls—"You like that, don't you, dyke?" was the one they used most commonly. She only wished for such a remedy to override her sense of touch, as two of the girls bashed relentlessly at her lower body while Lorrah scraped her up inside with her fingernails.

Then, as always, it was over just as quickly as it had begun. Lorrah smeared her fingers down the front of Alecia's shirt, making sure to graze her breast, and leered cruelly at her victim as she and her two accomplices marched out of the washroom.

And, again, as always, Alecia's back slid down the wall until she had collapsed onto the floor, no less stunned than she had been after their very first assault, and no less powerless to stop her tears.

—
From a long story,
1/10/2001

There was no response, only silence, for a long moment, and when I dared glance up again, an expression I could only interpret as one of confusion and fear had replaced the sternness on his face. I sighed inwardly; his blatant show of emotions gave away the answer I'd suspected, and my shock, surprise, and disgust had been exhausted by this point.

"Look, I already said I wasn't going to ask—" I gave up on trying to explain and opted for leaving him alone to think instead.

"Then why are you here?"

The fact that he had spoken out, much less so calmly, left me taken aback, and I realized I didn't really have an answer to his question that he would care to digest. So I turned back to him with one weapon, one defense, in my grasp: the truth.

"Because I thought I'd apologize if I pressured you into anything. And even if I didn't. I was just hoping that you didn't just screw me because I was there and to do it for the first time so you wouldn't be different anymore and to look cool to your friends. I know there weren't any deeper feelings involved, and I know we were kind of piss drunk, but I just hope that you didn't just do it to have it over with. I guess what I'm saying is that I don't want you to regret this later." I held back the urge to snort. Guys are blessed in the sense that they, unlike their women, never seem to bear the burden of guilt for their sexual misconducts. It seems to be preached as a woman's responsibility to live a sexually-pure life in this day and age.

He had much the same reaction as I. "Why would I regret it?" he laughed. "Takes two to fuck."

Despite their crude overtones, I firmly believe that those words, if ever given the chance, could change for the better the way society looks at the sexual roles of men and women.

"But you don't know what—" I began.

"Hey," he interrupted. "I'll tell you something. I'm not a real religious guy, you know? And I promise, I will have no regrets. I wasn't all, like, saving it for marriage or anything. To be honest, I was sick of not having the chance. Regan, did you know me two years ago?"

I gulped. "I . . . barely know you now." It was hard to admit that in the presence of a guy I had slept with just four days ago.

"Okay then. Let me tell you something about me. I was a huge, and I mean huge, dork back in those days. I was fat. I practically lived on junk food. I never showered. I had no friends. I hung out with my ten-year-old neighbour and played video games." I didn't know whether to laugh or show some sign of sympathy, so I was glad that he rushed on before forcing me to decide. "And when I hit eleventh grade, I got into alcohol. I'm not going to say that it changed my life, but in some ways, it's made me like myself more. I like having lots of friends and going to parties and dancing and telling retarded stories and laughing at things that aren't funny. I like feeling popular, even though the nerdy part of me knows that a lot of these people aren't really my friends. I like having had these new experiences. The thing with you was just another one of those. Something I've been wanting to do for a long, long time. No offense," he added.

"But, see?" I cried. "You only wanted it to get it over with. For a new experience. I just feel like you're going to end up regretting that. Doing it for the feeling instead of because . . ."

"Because why?" he prompted as my voice trailed off. "Because I was in love? Because I was ready for it? Because I wanted a kid?" He laughed bitterly. "Regan, shit like that doesn't happen to guys like me. We live now, die later. I'm not the kind of guy that girls fall in love with. But seriously," he went on, "why do most people have sex in high school? Because everyone else is. Because they're curious. Because they want to be accepted. To brag to their best friends. Or in your case, to beat the shit out of some slut who spreads rumours about you."

My eyes flew open. He knew!

"So really, holding me to those standards when in reality, hardly anyone is out there doing it for the right reasons is kind of hypocritical. Especially since," he mused, "you seem to be able to relate to my stance so well." He faced me, squinting, looking me square in the eye. "Am I hearing this lesson from someone who's been there herself? Or is that any of my business."

Before I could stammer out a reply, he interjected, "Why would I care what those people think? Why would I regret something I wanted to do? It's my business. I mean, so what if I didn't wait until I was in love, or whatever. There are no right and wrong reasons for this. It all boils down to the person's own opinion and everyone else can go fuck themselves. As for you telling me that I'll regret it, just because you did, I followed you up to that bedroom on my own free will, just like you led me up there on your own free will. It wasn't like I was handcuffed to your arm. But hey, I might have enjoyed that too." He grinned.

Not knowing how to respond to his long rant, I stood there stupidly, completely speechless.

And then the bell rang.

"Thanks for the talk, Regan," he sneered, patting my shoulder as he left the room.

—
From a long story,
5/19/2001

Having lost so many of his catches made him all the more determined to triumph over this one. He considered flat-out raping her, but decided against it for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it would get him into trouble with the law. That aside, it wouldn't be as much fun without the cooperation of his partner. She might put up a struggle. She did have some long fingernails, the girl did.

And then, it occurred to him. Instead of allowing her to wait for marriage to come along, he could bring the marriage to her.

He bought the engagement ring that night.

The tears in her eyes were the clincher. Somewhere, within an emotionally-packed three days of their engagement, he managed to convince her that, since they were due to be married soon anyhow, there was no harm in doing the deed now, and that God would forgive her. Hinting that she needed some practice for their big night. She had revolted at first, but a few glasses of wine were more than enough to lower her resistance.

That night, his fantasy of bedding a virgin came true. And the following morning, he was gone from her life, leaving her with only a seventy-five-dollar cubic zirconium engagement ring, her shattered self-worth, and the tears in her eyes.

—
From a long story,
3/23/2001

"You were drying your hair?" guessed Annette, glancing at the few dry locks of dark hair that had fallen from Cara's towel turban.

She gave another laugh. "Yeah. See ya later." She waved, and Annette, too overcome with her rushing emotions to respond, ducked her head and jogged back into the bushes, following the path from her house to Cara's on which she had traveled to arrive there.

Halfway back to her home, she reached into the plastic bag she had rolled up inside the pocket of her jeans and removed the .22-calibre handgun her mother's boyfriend kept illegally to pick off groundhogs from his fields. Placing it against her temple, she murmured her final goodbyes to the life she would never have. Despite her shaking hands, she gained enough control of herself to tighten her finger on the weapon's trigger.

BANG!—A loud blast rocked the air.

Searing heat. Wet blood. Pain.

Then nothing but dark.

—
From a long story,
4/07/2001