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Grub Street


SEPTEMBER, 2011 Contents Angela Herring-Lauzon.....................IV Megan Stuckey..........................XIV Angela Easby..........................................V Kimberly Rodda........................XVI Rebecca Garnham................................XI Jerrica Gilbert...........................XXI Thomas Walters.................................XII

HURON LITERARY SOCIETY Price, paper; 2 dollars

Vol. 1 Number 1


edited by Alex Assaly & Andrew Pel & Michael Sparrow

Huron University College 2011

L--d! said my mother, what is all this story about?— A Cock and a Bull, said Yorick—And one of the best of its kind, I ever heard. TRISTRAM SHANDY - Laurence Sterne

* I was a lonely nightwalker and steady stander-at-corners. I liked to walk through the wet town after midnight, when the streets were deserted and the window lights out, alone and alive on the glistenining tramlines in dead and empty High Street under the moon, gigantically sad in the damp streets by ghostly Ebenezer Chapel. JUST LIKE LITTLE DOGS - Dylan Thomas

Huron, The house of silent poets or a refuge for the unaware and apathetic? Although its walls stand high, the bricks appear to be laid without mortar; dispassion disintegrates its foundation and leaves the structure trembling on a hill of sand. Have the painters stopped painting? The poets consumed their ink? When letter writers stand - like hypocrites perhaps - and preach before you, listen: return to art and produce, for every nation, every race has its own creative and critical minds. Turn silence into music, letters into books, and white walls into paintings. Turn your bedlam into the house of singers and players of instruments. * The 2011/2012 school year will see a lot of changes. First, Grubstreet is now Grub Street. Second, Grub Street is now a chapbook. For those who do not know, a chapbook is a small book or pamphlet containing poems, ballads, stories, or religious tracts. Cheap to make and quick to format, The Huron Literary Society will be dedicated to creating multiple Grub Street chapbooks and giving the students of Huron an opportunity to share their works. The Huron Literary Society would like to give special thanks to Dr. McCarthy, Dr. Davies, Dr. Brooks, and Huron’s English Department for supporting and teaching the arts. Thanks to principle Dr. Stephen McClatchie, the HUCSC and, most importantly, the Huron students. Breathe art, produce, and support. Your Editors, Alex Assaly, Michael Sparrow, and Andrew Pel

Submit to Grub Street: Copyrights remain with the author or artist who grants Grub Street permission to publish his/ her work. Grub Street reserves the right to reject or edit a piece of writing if deemed necessary. No part of this journal may be reproduced without the explicit consent of the author(s) and/or editor(s). Any opinions or views expressed in Grub Street are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of Huron University College or the editors. Typesetting and layout by Grub Street Printing by Double Q Printing and Graphics

Angela Herring-Lauzon

Angela Easby

Impermanence and Change on a Perfect Day The wind stirs the feathery grass, a breeze through an azure day. Sunshine, like the gold coins in a juke box, shines so brightly the world sings. Sings with the voices or a thousand beautiful loves, a thousand beautiful creatures. Grass caresses your feet, emerald carpet for a precious fairy. Stepping lightly, you skip, laugh, and forget the world you see is simply an illusion.


Master of the World Tripping through time and space Sometimes I get happy and I don’t Know why, it’s not something I can control It’s not something that makes any sense To me. I used to sit in the sun and I’d feel warm and whole, and the light sank into My skin and I was the joyful burst of energy In the late shining afternoon. But then the things that made me happy began To change, I looked more and saw less I learned so much so fast, I’d second-guess The good sense I was given, and what was There, and real, I’d call it lies Or turn, so I didn’t have to see What I had gone looking un-asked for I felt too much and knew too little Like a word that was Spoken right before I came in the room And with so much not-knowing, the gloom of being too little Spilled from the corners of my mind onto The carpet of my days


So now, when I sit in the sun and The happiness pours out unbeckoned It is not for the light or the heat Or the simple kiss on my skin But for the memory of a moment When I was the master of the world Unawares.


With the tummy a-rumblin and the ache in the leg I sit here at my grey desk of non-description and I think I am at peace, I really do. If any of us know what peace really is, judging by the tv and the computers and the faces outside my window I don’t know if we really do. In a city how can we? In a city where the dark smoke billows and covers the inside of your throat and cuts out that one clear note that you really want to sing. The clear note that would cut through fog and billboards and travel down the lime blue electric circuits of the people under the street signs, it would flip their breakers and turn them on and then maybe the dust of things they never wanted would lift off them too. Lift off them like a reverse atomic bomb, a giant mushroom cloud that in one millisecond ZAP FLASH goes from covering the sky to contained in one little speck. But then it comes back down to it and we are in a city, right in the middle, right in the dark heart for better or for worse. It’s not always bad, sometimes if you aren’t close to the pulse you blink and you open your eyes again and you forget what you are and wander off. This is how we get cowboys living under bridges. But sometimes the heart is too close for comfort, especially one that doesn’t feel. I think peace would be a hill. A hill, lush green but tinged pink or purple or magenta depending on the clear sunlight, dying or rising, that comes in from afar. A hill and behind it the sea, but a sea so gentle and so blue that you’re almost afraid to step in because the blue is so alive you think it might stick to you. And in between the hill and the sea, as you get down, a little wood where the floor is blanketed by the softest moss you’ve ever felt, and the old creaky trees lean over so far they touch and the silence is so thick that it fills up your nose with the most delicious peach scent you’ve ever smelled, but more than just peaches it’s the smell of clarity and mystery.



I need to get back to the wild dark bramble corners where the roads aren’t paved.

Modern (Cult)ivation All that fluorescent lighting drains the colour out of your eyes and any pleasure that you take in vision is gone. There’s the horrible smoothness of it all, from the waxed banisters and the shiny store windows and the perfect mannequins all the way down to the glass-like floor, smoothness that runs from one thing to the next ‘til the whole goddamn complex is connected from the inside out, like a great sickly beast that doesn’t make any noise but rather lays there wheezing silently, not even daring to move to disturb the smooth sheen. A great beast created by termites, horrible and doomed from birth; doomed to a constant infestation of little creatures that scamper in, through, and around it, frittering away the daylight hours to bask in the fake glow of the society they leech from. The achievement of a society that scorns the sun, that scorns the natural cycle of the day and scorns the very rugged nature of reality, and replaces it with something so big and smooth and silent and all-encompassing that no one even needs to think anymore. Thinking is useless, and anyway it’s impossible over the whitewashed soft rock drilling into your eardrums from the advanced invisible speaker system. All you have to do is follow the wide boulevards of the indoor biosphere until you get to a stop that catches your eye, something especially shiny that you want on your finger or your feet or in your house; ; or maybe you see something that you want to be, you’re not sure what you have to buy to become it but you’re willing to find out. It’s a terrible infestation in the belly of a great beast, but unlike termites, we have no idea what we’re doing. We mill around in no formation and throw ourselves haphazardly at whatever we believe we need, and we think this shows free thought and freedom of choice. Anything less than an assortment of 7 colours offends our sense of self: we are Free Beings, free to choose, and we should have that choice. We should have the



Rebecca Garnham

choice between magenta and wild watermelon, because then we can tell ourselves that we have indeed made a choice and we are not trapped in this great wheezing machination. Then we can think calmly and with clear conscience that it is us that control it, and that it’s always been this way. This is the beast I fear more than anything else. Not the silent sickly animal, but the thing inside us that makes us believe it’s healthy.


I Turned To You/As You Slept I turned to you As you slept. You lay peaceful eyes closed against the night So as to see the light of dreams. And I felt in the darkness a clearing of clouds As though your soft breathing Had whisked them from overhead Dried up the puddles Revealing pickled leaves and twigs Allowing the moon to vainly bask In its own reflection in the Quietness of the street.


Thomas Walters

Modern Man


-for a best friend

To be modern man is contrived like Trying hard to be new, shining; A mobile. Floating above like avoidance served cold, misdirecting Waking up modern in neon, thigh high guilt and Oblivious to the last, smiling always smiling, weakly: soft Driving consistent. Driving compulsive; Hit hard enough to break your hand or Fall feeble, sneakered toes snatched up By cracks and brought to a knee Don’t give up on modern And if you throw it away you’ve Done yourself justice. I mean to say that, If you’re known as empty breasted And know the traced significance of truth, you Should get out and turn around. Find a pile of death And recycling and shit and make a play for the peak. ----------------------------------------------------------II. Grab a hold of your shoulder blades and Tear them from your mattered sheets. Coming up, lit light house, Phone booth, bell tower, Faith. Or better yet,


Hold out your loaded hand, Prolepsis is beneath your wrist. Punch through a stranger’s plate glass With the first sip. Stare at black heads on Pretty girls spent lips in the Blue part of your grey days Grinding teeth in the Reverberation of an empty mouth Right down to the jawbone, So it echoes when it moans. Always wake up with your stomach in a bowline, Brush back blackout blinds and bide your time for a while. Envy the curls your grandfather may have had Or else, From the other side of a wet shower curtain, Eyes stung by soft water, soaked in serious gaze, Right through a sewn pattern of lonely water droplets Eyes hunched and thirsty watching water crash slow, Tracing trusses of plastic, clinging painfully slow. Focused on breath and the light steam that follows. The plumbing barks like a dog put down.


Megan Stuckey

The Door Excerpts


This was a place of humiliation. The door itself was something that scorned us, for the very fact that we were the ones who built it. It was our creation, and yet when we realized it was a mistake we attacked it and it won; it was winning. Even now it still made me feel sick. I helped to make this place – this box – and like everyone else I climbed inside. Together we built the door to protect us from the rest of the world, but when it cut us off so thoroughly that we could not even see we realized our mistake. Every attempt we made to get out – every wild movement, scream – was silenced. I used to bang with the others against the door. I helped put the slashes on it that now scorn us. I grabbed hold of the knob and pulled until my own hands were about to fall apart. And to punish us the door returned our slashes; it never forgave us for fighting it. Two slashes on each hand, still red because they never healed. It still hurts to touch anything, and my palms burn when I can do nothing else but bury my face in them. That is what the door has done to us, and I hate it.


At first we were angry. We thought the door was wrong for us, but time healed that. We accepted the door, or at least learned to ignore it. Someone would comment on the door, and another would state it was doing its job well. Many defended the door. People wrote papers on it, articles, all in its favour. The door, after all, was our greatest decision. It kept the lights and the sounds out; it kept us safely in. And no one really wanted to get rid of the door. What would life be like, they argued, if we took it down? We would have to go outside again: we would have to make colours and sounds of our own, stand up beside all the others and judge ourselves. Really, the door was protecting us. We were proud of our creation.

I noticed early on that people stopped looking at the door. Their eyes naturally passed around it and eventually they stopped going near it at all. Its presence sank into the background of our minds and soon it became less important than anything else. Even the slashes on my hands seemed less visible. I wore gloves for a little while, but like the door, I learned to just avoid looking at them. And that is how we got here. This box does not have a lot of space, but we cannot get out and so we accept it. The door taught us that: there is no point in fighting it. And it is right. When we built the door we were so sure of our decision. Before us we had all our apprehensions and uncertainties, assembled into one mass: and so Fear built the door. He stood at the opening for a long time, simply staring at it. We all watched him, his shadow gliding across our faces as he rocked. It took him a long time to figure out what to do. He started by taking off his leg. And then his arm. He framed the door with his limbs, and then filled himself with in it. Fear built the door out of himself and so we know it is strong. We have fought him and he has resisted. We have questioned him and he has punished us. And now we ignore him and accept he is right, because we cannot fight Fear. But that is okay. Fear protects us from the world. We are glad our door is locked.



Kimberly Rodda

Burning Candles My thoughts lack continuity. I have a beastly habit of letting my mind out unaccompanied at night, my mind with his uncivilized habit of traipsing across the countryside and inviting back to my tired hollow ache of a head all manner of creeping crawling thoughts that cast shadows across my sky-blue dreams. Day breaks and I fall bleary eyed back against my pillow, worn out. I think continually. Ideas leap up and falter and break off, s









breathing per day. No sir, not much, I assure you. The world presses in, but I press back harder, and we neither of us can force much through the pin-point small pores of that shell. Next time, I’ll be more careful. You caught me unawares. Unsuspecting and unawares. Maybe I’ll find some more air, tonight.


I aspire towards coherence. I wish for a blank slate. Light pollution destroys all hope for respite. The black-out curtains I ordered online failed to arrive. I may have given a false address. I’m no insomniac. I spend far too much time running across distended dreamscapes, chasing my mind. A mad dash, maddened. An effort in futility. My mind turns, pirouettes, sees me in the distance, and gives out a muffled cry before plunging on again, relentless and unsympathetic. Freud has passed his expiration date. My mind has knees of its own to slap. It’s my aching head that is in dire need of some understanding. I crave pineapple. I can never stop midway along. I slurp and crunch— oh, pineapple—until all that remains is my mouth, empty, and cratered with cankers. But then, you never cared much for me, did you? I try to remind myself that unless I allow myself to be impacted in some way there isn’t much that has the power to come crushing through the soft-thick shell of my cunningly contrived personal space, laboriously carved out of my socio-politico-economic context from the inside, to allow room for some fourteen healthy breathfulls of deep-



* “What’s her name?” He doesn’t know. “What’s she like?” “She likes croissants and coffee with milk.” “What’s she like?” “She’s nice.” “You’ve never talked with her?” “She says thank you.” “Why don’t you talk with her?” “I wouldn’t know where to begin.” She shakes her head. He sighs; it all seems unlikely. Something far-fetched. He imagines that it might be nice to kiss the nose that crinkles so alarmingly. * She knows that he’s an accountant. It’s been determined since partway through September. The firm has a sign on the door that he disappears into when he’s gotten off the bus early, and comes out of around one in the afternoon to go for lunch: Wilder & Sons. She wonders if he is one of the sons. Wilder is a bald man with a hunched back and an expensive watch. She’s seen him sitting on the bench on warmer days, basking, reading the paper. She’s tired of the croissants at the café. The one next door has croissants with a chocolate hidden melting inside. She ate there once, one day when the café was closed, unexplained. She’d like to go back and have another. The chocolate was a pleasant surprise. But she’d rather keep the pattern of her day the way it is, so that she can surreptitiously watch him coming in the door behind her, and then standing back while she deliberates then orders; she’s become so fond of speculating on what he’ll buy, and hazards guesses, loosely based on the

weather. Warmer days require something fresh; the cold days—colder and colder as days slide by—he needs to wrap his hands around something hearty and hefty or hot from the oven. Some days she guesses right, and then can’t help letting her face break into a grin of something like triumph at her success. Once he sees the grin, and she presses her lips tight together. She’s afraid the coffee has stained her teeth. * The door doesn’t swing open. Maybe she’s a bit late. He waits in the café, orders a croissant, the darkest one they have, and coffee with just the smallest splash of milk. Could that be him, at the counter? There’s something familiar about those broad shoulders, but the hair is all wrong. He turns. No, it can’t be. There’s something altogether different in the slope of his face. They might be his eyes— But it’s hard to tell, they look so much smaller, without glasses. It can’t be him. There’s something familiar about the woman walking in, the dark shine of her hair against a red jacket. It must be the red jacket. The hair is so short, it hasn’t any swing. Besides, this woman has the wrong gait. Her legs push forwards awkwardly, with none of her easy grace. She comes up nearly to the top of the door, and doesn’t have to reach up for the handle. The frame is hers, but so much less full. She might collapse. Once inside, past the frosted glass, it can’t be her. The line of her nose is all wrong. It’s a fine nose, but it isn’t hers. And these eyes have a different shape entirely, though they might have the same bright twinkle. She pauses. He waits. She looks at the croissant in the man’s hand. And coffee. But that would



Under the Knife Excerpts

Jerrica Gilbert

stain her teeth, and once she’s won this battle, it’s such a shame to give in. He sees the woman, who he must know from somewhere, eyeing the croissants, but in the end she settles for a yogurt parfait. Fat free. No, she wouldn’t.


Build God Then We’ll Talk

Sweat ran down her neck as she sat back in her seat. The professional’s office, despite its impressive bay windows streaming light into the large room, felt imposing and cramped. She wondered how he could look so cool in that elegant dark suit as he looked over her papers while she struggled to keep her face calm and devoid of expression. She needed this job: it was either this or else back to waiting tables on Witherspoon. “Well, Miss – I must admit this is rather an impressive résumé for someone so young.” He said as he leaned back in his chair, surveying her across the mahogany desk. He considered her brown hair tucked neatly behind her ears that revealed a rather plain face. Her mouth was small and insignificant, but the way her flushed cheeks helped draw attention to her clear blue eyes helped offset her otherwise simple features. She wore a white blouse that fitted her lean figure well, and when she had walked lightly into his office he had noticed that, despite her respectable knee-length skirt, she wasn’t completely shapeless. He concluded that she would do. She glowed at his compliment, her eyes becoming even lovelier as they sparkled. “Thank you sir, I’m sure that you’ll find me a very suitable candidate for this position if….” “Well, that remains to be seen.” The lawyer chuckled as he got up from his chair. Ignoring her stricken face, he stood impressively glancing out the windows with his back to her. “You see, we’ve had many suitable candidates apply for this position. I’ve interviewed two of them just this morning, each one with qualifications similar to yours. It’s a very competitive job market out there these days, as I’m sure you’ve witnessed.” He turned back around to face her trembling form, smiling at her unease. Inside her head she was panicking as she thought of the neglected


hydro bill sitting on her table in her small apartment, and the cupboards that she hadn’t been able to fill properly since she lost her job a year before. “Still, I believe you have some potential with us. Before we go any further, however, I want you to be aware that I look for a lot in my secretaries to justify the wages I pay them. After all, we can’t afford anyone at this firm who doesn’t live up to her duty.” She nodded enthusiastically. “Sir, I want you to know that I’m prepared to do anything to secure my spot as your assistance, and I’m willing to go above and beyond the expectations you have for me.” The lawyer’s sly smile grew wider as he eased around the desk to stand directly behind his prey. The young woman sat completely still as he placed both hands on her shoulders. “Such an honest declaration from such a devoted girl! I’m certain that you’ll fit in quite well around here. Nonetheless, it’s so hard to measure one’s intrapersonal skills within the confines of a formal interview such as this one. Would you be opposed to a setting where I can judge your skills more… efficiently?” “What kind of setting are you considering, sir?” She said as her lip quivered. “Well, there are many places in this city where we could conduct such business. Personally, I’m disposed to the corner of 4th and Fremont Street: are you acquainted with that district Miss?” “Unfortunately, no Sir, but I’m pretty sure I know the place you’re speaking of.” Her voice came out as barely a whisper. She hadn’t realized that this had been in the job description. “Excellent, you’re a bright woman. How acceptable is tomorrow night at ten for you? I certainly wouldn’t want to upset any plans you may already have, of course.” She turned her head slightly to fixate her gaze on his left hand resting on her shoulder. The late afternoon sun glittered lightly off the gold band on his index finger. “And how would you’re wife feel about such an appointment?”


He laughed good-naturedly; he was clearly comfortable with the proposition he had just given her. “My wife understands my need to work late at times and, after all Miss, this appointment will be strictly business. If you’re uncomfortable with the task at hand, don’t fret about disappointing me: there are lots of people just as willing as you to fill this position.” With that, he left her side to sit back down behind his desk, readjusting his glasses as he picked up some other documents to consider. Evidently, the interview was over unless she acted accordingly. Terrified she was at the prospect, but then her priest wouldn’t be able to pay her bills or buy her groceries. What was one night for a career? “Tomorrow is a good time for me, if it means that I’ll have a job for Monday.” Looking up once again from his papers, he smirked at her pale face. “There’s the bright girl that I’m looking for: I’m sure you’ll feel very comfortable here once we settle your affairs. I’ll trust that you’ll be able to find 103 on your own: no need to speak with the doorman, you’ll find the way clear.” He turned back to his work on the table in front of him. She waited another minute for him to dismiss her: when he didn’t, she rose slowly to her feet and quietly left the room as she had come. Out in the hallway, she let a sob escape from her throat as she hurried out of the magnificent building to return home to pray in her dark apartment. She had hoped for clouds to block out the moonlight as she made her way through the sinister streets towards her destination. She had replaced the blouse and skirt with an old coat with a long hem to disguise the fact that she was hardly wearing any clothes at all beneath it. Although she had never been in a situation like this one before, she assumed that it would be better to dress up the package. After all, you have to present yourself nicely for every other interview…. The motel loomed ahead; while it bore the signs of a respectable old establishment, she knew that the business conducted within its doors


was anything but. This was the kind of place her mother had warned her against – but the dead couldn’t help her right now. She needed her future, not the recriminations of the past. Walking as he had said past the indifferent man reading idly behind the counter, she made her way down the dimly-lit hallway towards the room assigned to her. There was a stale scent in the air that would have felt more at home in a morgue than a motel. Then, who was she to judge? Sinners shouldn’t expect five-star treatment. No, it was impossible for her to be held liable for a situation beyond her control. Wasn’t it? Standing outside room 103, she squeezed her eyes shut as she crossed herself one last time. “Well, I’ve had better.” The lawyer voiced to the room as he buttoned up his shirt. She lay rigid on the lumpy mattress as he bustled around the room putting his appearance back together. His watch on the end table, his pants draped over a chair in the corner, his tie on the dresser. Apparently, he wasn’t as organized as his office made him out to be. “Worth my time, sure, but definitely not worth a second claim.” She continued to ignore him, staring up at the ceiling with her hands crossed casually on her chest. She heard running water as he stepped into the washroom, presumably to comb his thinning hair. “A decent end to the work week, anyway. Your payment is on the bureau: I think you’ll be satisfied with the amount. Good luck in your future placements.” He picked up his briefcase and headed towards the door. She snapped up from her position on the bed. “Excuse me? My future placements? Has this not secured my right to be your receptionist?” With his hand on the doorknob, he glanced back around at her. “Ahh, but this was only the second stage of the interview process Madam. And I know now that you will be needing a bit more experience before you can expect to be hired under me. Of course, once you get that experience you’ll be considered invalid for the position – an


interesting paradox, but not one I’m keen to solve.” Fury and terror rose up through her chest “You worthless fuck! I only came here expecting to have a job on Monday! What if I want to turn you in and expose your little dirty business?” “Expose my little dirty business, eh? And who exactly are you going to report to? Our operations here were perfectly legal; after all, you came on your own consent. My wife will just dismiss you as another slut looking for money. What about the press? Do you really think you’ll be able to present yourself as the innocent virgin corrupted by the big bad system? If I go down, honey, you’ll fall harder than I will. Take the cash and consider this a learning experience.” He chuckled maliciously as he disappeared through the door. Shocked at his abrupt departure and the situation she was left in, the girl remained staring at the door for quite some time. Eventually, she got up and began to haphazardly dress herself from her heap of clothes at the end of the bed. She purposively avoided looking into the mirror above the bureau, and considering herself presentable she looked to leave this horrible experience behind her. Then she remembered the money. Five hundred dollars tucked inside an envelope. Well, at least the night wasn’t a complete waste of time. The evening had cooled off as it approached midnight. She stumbled down the street blindly as one intoxicated, simply desiring to be at home in her bed. Aside from a few vagrants that whistled at her from a dirty alleyway, she was alone until…. “Miss, what brings you to this side of town at this time of night?” A constable leaned up against his car parked parallel to the deserted sidewalk. The streetlight reflected off his well-polished shoes. His cap was pulled low over his face as a cigarette glowed between two of his fingers. She clutched at her purse, not knowing exactly why. “Just coming home after work, Officer.”


He tilted his head slightly as he surveyed her. “Now, where would a respectable girl be working this late at night? Certainly nowhere respectable at this time and in this neighbourhood.” A half-mad smile formed on the virgin’s lips. “I’m not sure if I’m respectable after this job.” The constable stood up straight from his position on the car. He towered over the girl as he blew smoke into her face. “We can’t have any of that business in this town, Miss. The law says it’s harmful to society, and it’s my job to make sure that society doesn’t suffer. Do you understand?” “Of course I do, Officer. Of course I do! However, this was supposed to be a one-time position, and I’m certain no harm has come out of it.” “But the law must be followed, I’m sure you understand. And perhaps a cell is a softer bed for you to sleep in tonight.” Realizing the consequences of her loose tongue, the girl made to back away from her antagonist – unfortunately, the constable caught her wrist in one fluid movement and pulled her close so that her nose was inches from his face. The meager contents of her purse spilled onto the hard pavement as the eyes the lawyer had found pretty gazed up into the weathered face of the cop. “Of course, the law is fair to those willing to help it. The night patrol can be a lonely and dull ride. I doubt we would have to go down to the station if you were willing to help keep the peace.” His eyes drifted down towards her exposed neckline that was the result of her ill-positioned coat. Her mind felt numb, her heart throbbing in her chest – she’s already sold her soul once today. “I’ll consider your proposition, Sir, but only if the law will provide me with a ride home afterwards.” After all, she didn’t want to get screwed four times in a row. “I took you for a smart one when I saw you,” he said as he unlocked the door to the cruiser, “I’ll agree to those terms.” She smiled weakly as she strolled to the passenger door.

The sunlight crept leisurely across her bedroom wall as she sat huddled against the wall. She clutched her earnings from the night before gently to her chest: the constable had been kind enough to let her part with forty dollars for her trouble. Coupled with the lawyer’s five hundred, she would have enough to pay the hydro and get her phone reconnected. As tears flowed freely down her face, she smiled gently. “Well, there’ll be no roses and white dresses, but it’s a career I can get used to.”



Brought To You By Alex Assaly & Michael Sparrow

Grub Street

Grub Street September 2011  

Grub Street is Huron University College's literary journal. It includes short stories, artwork, poetry, and essays written by Huron students...

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