By Gabrielle Wilkon
he stays up all night over his blueprints and maps and plans out the exact course of action he will take in the approaching hours. the time unravels and brings sweat to his forehead. he works away in nervous anticipation of the rising sun, a sun that demands that his feet start out again down the road. he paints his life first, void of all intruding characters and imposing shadows. there are no fallen coins on his route. no black cats or unaccounted for newspapers can be found in his daily hours. every day has been scrutinized most diligently and seen through his eyes once before.
he works away until the first blinding light of the sun appears. once he's prepared, he takes his briefcase, his coat and his hat and opens the door. he passes through every street, block and park through preprogrammed steps. at the alley way crossing, he opens his briefcase and examines his plan once more. he repeats the directions and the rules in his mind. he nods to himself at the green light as he walks forward steadily. he is satisfied with the scrupulous calculations that foresaw the exact angle of the white passing car with the barking dog hanging out of the window just diagonally to him now. he is here, exactly at 12:47 p.m. and so are they. he is on track. he freezes and waits for the yellow car and the grey semi to pass. he stands motionless. he is almost ready to go, he lifts his left leg and takes 4 steps, and there, there she is.
the red haired girl winds the approaching corner. she swings her red purse around her hand and hums the familiar tune to herself. he listens to her footsteps coming closer, and the scent is almost about to engulf him. he is ten steps away from her now. the hair is almost visible from his downcast gaze. he waits for another four full steps and then, yes, he is hit. she smacks him with the cloud of sparkling dust and a lavender aroma. with this scent inside him now, he is able to take flight. he soars with the angel who leads him. breath leaves his body, shadows disappear, closed equations and his briefcase disintegrate on the ground. he is free. the child in him returns. he glides higher and ricochets off the clouds. he is forced to take a breath. he pants and tumbles to the ground. his feet pound the sidewalk, but his gait is quickly resumed, as he remembers the formula that will take him back to his crypt.
lights sparkle in distant galaxies
and a galaxy forever changes
spectrums from red to green
and the speed of light is diminished
to a halt
one scream arises from multiple mouths
and now silence reigns in
an intersection where no one stops
mantled steel and deformity are shared
among the participants
passersby stare with mouths agape
the sound of guitars hides the whimpers
that fill the air
no one can hear the silence that surrounds them
a wave swims to the scene
and takes the whimpers
into the blue, cloudless sky
the light turns green again
but no one is left
Gabrielle Wilkon is a student at York University in Toronto, Canada. She is majoring in Health Sciences but writing a lot on the side.