All that glitters is not gold The things folks value do not hold A candle to your warm embrace The look of bliss on my child’s face

All that shines is not sublime Some things don’t pass the test of time New friendships when they’re made too fast Burn out as quick as airborne ash

Loud ringing bells don’t always ring best Those who speak longest have much to confess What’s hot today may be cold tomorrow The widest smile may hide great sorrow

The richest cream is first to curdle Lead is heavy but a toxic metal The fastest loom may tangle thread The robust tire may lose its tread

What is true may not be apparent Beneath the shine could be abhorrent Trust only what our hearts procure Not what our eyes assume is pure

Slick city Cut at angles Grimy pavement For mindless shufflers Clattering mufflers

Gutter garbage Bulldozing bikers Reeking sewage Lights changing green yellow red Some drivers look dead

Beeping crosswalks Huge hounds on designer leashes Road construction No one talks, empty bottles on beaches Absent texters like zombies Hipsters wearing Abercrombies

Child wanders without parent Lines at Starbucks Morning Lattes, names out-shouted Jackhammers pecking ancient Concrete Seagulls, pigeons wait for crumbs Day-traders making sums Lives hawked for profits Jagged glass on soffits Trying and failing To keep the wild away

Just another day In any big city

From far away it may impress Close up you can see the mess

Leaves decay instead of detach

Not pretty

It used to be gut wrenching to review each wrong, The things that people did to me. The bricks of grief I dragged like heinous medals “Forgive the jabs, the bullying, the tears— Let bygones be!” But some hatchets were too large to bury.

Now I live in perpetual present, my memories wiped clean. The things I can’t recall about my past— My empty screen, Don’t bother me. My day is now, this moment only; My soul is light, I could take flight. Don’t ask me to recall your name.

I don’t know why you’re sorry.

Just another day in the university library. I have on my desk an open, yellowed manuscript from our Reserve area, a text from the time of Shakespeare. I am carefully analyzing the way the text differs from current versions from the 20th Century. Bibliography is my lowest mark this semester, but it is nevertheless my favourite course.

When I near completion of my task, my iPhone lights up and a text message appears. For once it is not from a fellow student asking for study notes or from a prof adding new work to my already full schedule. It is from a complete stranger.

[So guess the date we made was just a joke to you. I waited four hours in the pub thinking that maybe we had miscommunicated. Thanks to you, MIA Maria, I drank way too much and ended up spending all my grocery money on booze, went home drunk, and now am suffering a sodding hangover from Hell. Thank you very little!]

I knew one thing for certain. I had no dates, ever. Who has time for that silliness? This could not be for me. He must have drunk dialled and left this text, not realizing he had sent it to the wrong person. Maybe this Maria had just given him a made-up number, after he insisted that they meet up. (We’ve all done that when some drunk dude won’t leave us alone. At least I used to, when I was still naive enough to think that one could party and also maintain a First-class average.) Likely, this was a situation among first year students.

I felt helpless to fight the urge to respond. His name, from my caller ID was Marlow. How could I resist that bait, given the time period I was working in?

My time was up with the manuscript so I returned it to the front desk and retrieved my student card. Down the stairs to the stacks I walked like a zombie, still ruminating about what I would send back to ‘Marlow.’ The huge shelves of dusty tomes threatened to tip over—the air smelled of sweat and desperation. Not enough light to do any real work down here. It was the perfect place to plan something deceitful.

I settled into a decrepit desk in a back corner. On the floor were the remains of blunts, long since abandoned, with the associated ashes streaked on the granite floor. The surface of the desk was riddled with carvings, probably scribbled by those at a loss as to how to pass exams that they were not a all prepared for.

‘Amy and Matt FOREVER’

‘Higher education is a government conspiracy’

‘I before E except if E is your thing’

‘Sociology sucks balls”

‘Your tax dollars not at work’

But then, written sideways in black, permanent marker was, ‘For a good time, call Maria 442-534-4041’. That was MY number! What? Must have been some Frosh’s idea of a joke, since I am a notoriously picky teaching assistant, far from beloved. I am sure that this was the source of Marlow’s mistaken message, but who had started it all? In good conscience I couldn’t write a lie back in response to the text. It would just add to the poor guy’s confusion, and he was already the butt of someone else’s cruel joke.

I search through my overstuffed backpack for my flip-chart marker. I carefully cover the desk message until it is unreadable. My stomach churns and gurgles, reminding me to eat before the light-headedness arrived.

A few blocks away at the student cafe, I grab a slice of gooey cheese pizza to take home. My stand-by cheap dinner and antidote for stress or melancholy. My steps on the wet pavement feel extra heavy, as I trudged along. The sky sighed discontentedly, with dark forms swirling, menacing. Felt as if a storm was on its way.

After I eat and have a glass of wine, I send this text to Marlow.

[I don’t remember making any plans with you. Sounds like you had an awful night! I am a teaching assistant doing my MA. My past students may have been circulating my cell number as a fiendish prank. I found my number etched into a desk in the university library’s stacks today, accompanied by the name, ‘Maria.’ Apparently, someone thought it hilarious to say that I might offer a ‘good time.’ But anyone who knows me knows that is truly not possible. Lol.

Sorry for the confusion. It seems we have both been had.

Best, Dianna J. ]

You see, I couldn’t bring myself to delude this poor kid further by pretending to be his hot-to-trot Maria. I wasn’t known as a sweetheart, but I was not cruel either. If students hate me, set me up for these kind of shenanigans, it just showed that they were not mature enough to be part of this university. Too bad that this Marlow, whomever he is, got entangled with the hoax. With these thoughts, I put the lid on the day and turn out the light, grateful for having solved the mystery.

Or, so I thought.

                       * * *

The next morning I was surprised to find a new text on my phone. As I ate my scrambled eggs, I read it. I almost started to choke.

[Hello, Dianna,

I had not meant for that text to be sent. I started using an old phone of my Dad’s that I had used for a while in my first year. The message I had written never got sent because I got a new phone. Until this week, the old one was not in use. My new phone got flung out of the bus window by a recent girlfriend who suffered from chronic jealousy. Hence no girlfriend, now, and also, back to the ancient phone.

The message in the stacks was about a girl named Maria who was the Venus of our first-year class. Turned out she became ill mid-year, hence she missed her date with me, and probably broke many hearts by simply disappearing. Later we found out she had passed during Holiday Break from pneumonia, of all things. Too many late nights, or too many contacts. Anyway, just wanted you to know that your students weren’t pranking you.

Also, I want you to know that I for one think you are both brilliant as well as beautiful. I am so embarrassed to have had you involved in this awkward situation. I know you better than you might realize as I work at Reserve Library Desk and so often see how dedicated you are toward your work. So dedicated, in fact, that I doubt you even know I am there. But I know you, after seeing your ID card on so many occasions.

I am also a Grad student, doing my MA in Library Science. My work in the Reserve area is what they gave me to do because there are no TA-ships in my department. I have been put into a position where I must watch you, not for pleasure though I always find that pleasurable, but because it is my job. I like my job, Dianna.

Since you have never spoken to me in all these months, I guess I would like to introduce myself to you. Marlow was the name of our family cat. My name is Paul Carson. I hope that you speak to me when you are next in the Reserve area. Oddly, this misunderstanding has created the chance to meet you, something I have wanted but was afraid to do for so long.

Regards, Paul AKA ‘Marlow’]

Staggering on uncertain legs, the tiny fawn explored her surroundings awkwardly. Just hours ago she was safe inside her mother and now she struggled to keep warm, but exploring was her first priority. The smells were overwhelming—each plant was unique, with its own tangy aroma. She wandered until she was fully exhausted. Finally she flopped into a nest of tender grasses, and began to try to locate her mother’s scent. Then she felt a gentle lick of her head and breathed a sigh. Her mother’s milk was like ice cream is to a child on a hot day. Delicious.

It may seem bizarre to you, when I say that I haven’t ventured beyond my own threshold in many years. Long before the likes of Covid 19, I was convinced (still am) that some kind of pandemic would happen and the only way I would be safe was if I stayed in an environment alone. It no longer worries me, this obsession of mine. I don’t much care for people or what they think of me. This age is about survival, not socializing.

How can a person in this day and age stay in one location for years on end? It is unbelievably simple. I get everything I need delivered, prepaid, and left outside my apartment door. I use computer banking, eTransfer or PayPal. I see my doctor, mostly for minor ailments (I never get blood work done) with Skype.

When SARS hit Toronto years ago, I knew that the only way to survive the coming slew of new and worse viruses was to self isolate. For good. You see, I was a medic in the military, and I had realized during my service that the world would soon face warfare that was designed to appear randomly but which was all too calculated. It was a plan to reduce the world’s population, hatched by those who saw dollar signs when they thought of population decreases. We in the military were vaccinated almost weekly for things we had never heard of. I knew that this was a sign of things to come. SARS was just the beginning of it all.

I could have shared my knowledge with others but chose not to. They would just think me mad, another ‘conspiracy theorist’ to target in the media. No one would listen, I knew. But I think more would listen now, which is why I am writing this journal. At the first sign of getting ill, I will send it to those in the independent media. Perhaps it will help them make sense of what will, in time, become the reason for the extermination of more than half the world’s occupants.

This may happen sooner than I had imagined. Today I was forced to go outside and it was terrifying. But I had no choice. My best friend Louise, my companion of 20 years, had passed away in the night. I could not keep the body with me in such a small place as the bacteria that would work to decompose my friend could become lethal for me, as well. Neither could I incinerate the body myself, because I had only an electric stove.

First, there was the shock of realizing my cat wasn’t moving this morning, not up like usual, batting at my nose in her darling attempt to wake me. Instead, she lay cold and freakishly rigid in her wicker basket. I have seen many corpses in my duty as a medic, but none disturbed me more than seeing my dear friend dead. Poor Louise. At least she died peacefully from what I gathered. Just fell asleep and didn’t wake up. I hope that is exactly how I myself go, someday.

So, through my tears I decided that I had to venture outside, as far as the building’s dumpster. First, I removed her little plaid collar, worn with age and her claw marks from previous attempts to remove it herself. I placed it in my jewelry box, where I also kept my dog tags and an old photo of my parents, long since dead of Covid-19. At least they died together, hand in hand, after their ventilators were finally removed.

After the collar was gone, I brushed Louise’s lovely long fur one last time. The gorgeous tortoise colours still dazzled in the sunshine, just as beautiful as they had been the day I adopted her as a stray kitten. Her piercing green eyes closed forever, I wished I could see them open and looking at me with love, like they had been during all the days of my confinement. I longed to see her chirping at the little visiting birds that would rest upon the balcony railing and taunt her. She was allowed only that single freedom, to breathe the outside air and imagine she could one day catch a bird. On the fifth floor, that was all the freedom I could offer.

I wrapped her in a soft fleece blanket, one that had often lined her basket. Then I suited up, with my mask, plastic gloves and coveralls. I was willing to take this risk with my life, going outside. She was my only living relative and deserved to be put to rest properly. And I could not bear to keep her with me—the pain of the loss was too great, even for a seasoned veteran of war, like myself.

After carefully depositing her tiny body into the giant dumpster, I quickly scrambled back upstairs to my safe place, took a very hot shower and sanitized myself fully. I am trying not to let my thoughts run rampant, imagining the microbes from outdoors burrowing into me, the deadly contagions I may have inadvertently caught.

A sad day, I must say. I have retrieved her collar and am holding it, fingering its bumps and ridges, jingling the tags aimlessly. I down a scotch before bed, because for once it is truly required.

It has been a week since Loise left me. Compounding her loss is my own illness, which started yesterday—the first time I have been sick since I self-isolated. Chills, headache, body aches. I soon realized the situation was worse than I thought. I had not been on the balcony since the day before Louse passed, so it was horrifying to go out, expecting fresh air to revive my spirit but instead finding the mutilated remains of a dead sparrow. Disgusted by yet another deathly image, I kicked that retched thing off the balcony, watching in plummet to the distant ground.

I contacted my on-line physician, explaining my symptoms in detail. I told him that I had been outside just to dispose of my cat’s corpse—that other than that I had not been out in contact with others for many years. His eyes showed sympathy, which touched me. I thought perhaps he knew what it meant to lose such a dear pet. But that was not the reason for his empathy.

He asked whether the cat was allowed outdoors and I reassured him that the balcony was as far as she was ever allowed. Did she ever come into contact with birds, he asked. I remembered the ripped apart remains of the sparrow, and of course she had been the little victor, finally catching one on her last day. I told him about it. He asked if I had been watching the news and I of course said no, since the news is all full of misinformation, half-truths or complete lies. Few people even bothered anymore.

He explained that despite my efforts to stay safe, that a new, fast-progressing virus had been active in the city in the past week. It seemed to travel from birds to animals that prey on them, then, oddly, to humans through mere contact with infected animals. It was called BARS. My symptoms matched those reported in the humans who had already caught it and died within a few days. Its death rate was 75%, for those who had it. Given my extended exposure, age and current symptoms, he felt I should remain isolated and hope for the best.

I am waiting for the outcome of my current situation. The saddest realization I face is that my infected cat has now moved on and potentially been touched and could contribute to the coming annihilation of our city’s humans.

Please, those who read this, know that my intention was never to harm anyone, least of all myself. My fever is still high and I find it increasingly difficult to breathe. Yet, I cannot go to hospital because I have been told to stay home. The chance of my spreading the awful thing is too high to risk exposing the workers or patients to it by going for help. Now I am here, and for the first time, I wish I could be in a medical centre. Anywhere but here.

As I hold Louise’s collar in my shaking hand, I realize that it may not be long before we are together again.

Snort. Kerpluffen. Snort. Sneeeeee. Snort.

My husband’s nose makes many sounds, not every night. But many nights. Especially during the fall, when the air gets dryer, which makes all the gunk in a given nose all the more clumpy. Sometimes I ask him to roll on his side, clear his throat or blow his nose. I ask these things without judgement or malice and he responds almost always by complying, as if embarrassed.

When I first knew him I heard these sounds. They were not a surprise package granted me only after years of romantic interludes. They have always been with me during my sleep hours, sometimes a comfort, sometimes not. One famous trick his nose does is to say my name. That’s right—my actual name comes from a combo of his nose and mouth exhaling. Seeeeeerahhh. My name is Sara. It is hard to sleep through my name being repeated. However, I also realize that it is the only name I have ever heard his exhale say, and so it is kind of cool.

He must have done this his entire life. He was 39 when I met him, and so when I realized he snored my name, it seemed a ‘sign,’ a beacon that told me we were indeed meant for one another. Lots of other signs appeared in the first years, also. We both drank horrible yet addictive instant coffee. We both had never had someone love us back as we had loved them. We both had a thing for live comedy, and it was in that setting I realized that he indeed laughed as loudly as I did—something I knew was a rare and valuable asset.

Yep, he was the one for me and still is. Going to bed angry is something we never do. Maybe it is because we seldom if ever quarrel. Instead, we get stoned every evening. We started that when I was transitioning off some medication and having excruciating nausea. He had given up drinking around the same time, and was ready for a new substance to help him unwind. It was the perfect solution. And it was also mighty hilarious. We laugh together more than any couple I know. Thank you, legalized cannabis.

But being stoned doesn’t in any way prevent the night sounds that he emits. Having sex does not halt the sounds, either. It is part of the fabric of our somewhat unconventional lives. What we cannot change, we must accept, some say.

I have for example learned to accept his hermit time, on Saturday nights when he builds a campfire in our yard and sits there, poking at it and intermittently staring at the Milky Way above, splayed out across the sky like a show meant just for him. Those nights I tend to hit the hay earlier. But I don’t fall asleep easily. I can’t sleep well or soundly without him next to me, often holding my hand or in some other way resting against me. I am the ying to his yang, the pea to his pod, the helter to his skelter. And he is mine.

So, this is why when my name comes out of him in the middle of the night, as it has for as long as he has had his nose, I know it is Kismet. And I also know that he can sleep through most sounds I make at night, such as my incessant teeth chawing and occasional lady-farting. This is a blessing to us both as I cannot stop either trait.

And, as of yet, I cannot fart his name and God help me, I have tried.