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Authors: Richard Scarsbrook
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stand the pleasure anymore. But she also wanted to close her eyes, hold her breath, and just listen.
He described the frustrations of a dozen mechanical breakdowns, the pain of a hundred acidic growls from his empty stomach, the horror of the flash flood, the delirium of the long, scorching drought, the terror of staring down the barrel of an angry soldierâs rifle. He was thankful for it all, even the terrifying parts, the moments when he thought his life was over. Especially those parts. Those moments showed him what sort of material he was made of, exactly how much he could withstand if he had to.
âNow tell me about the places youâve been,â he said.
She did.
Her story took less time to tell, and had fewer stops along the way, but more splendid adjectives. Glints of copper in the steel-grey rocks. Snow banks painted pink by the setting sun. The rippling, ghostly sheets of colour that are the Northern Lights. A thousand little silver lakes viewed through the windows of Cessna and Piper single-props. And then, her recent explorations of the lights and shadows of Toronto at night.
And that was it. That was all she had.
Eventually, the orange light of a new day diffused through the single dusty window.
âWhere are you travelling next?â she asked.
âIâm going to ride up to an old friendâs cottage next weekend. Itâs a high-school reunion kind of thing. Want to come?â
As she reminded herself again, There is no such thing as love at first sight, she heard herself saying to him, âYes, I would.â
*
As The Drifter eases the Norton Commando though another gentle curve, The Stunner is still telling herself, There is no such thing as love at first sight. There is no such thing as love at first sight. There is no such thing as love at first sight.
She closes her eyes, feels the warm wind stroke her body and enjoys the vibration of the engine beneath her.
âJust a few more miles to go,â The Drifter calls back to her.
The road straightens again. He twists back the throttle, and the bike surges forward.
Love at first sight. Love at first sight. Love at first sight.
She squeezes the seat between her thighs, and the pure, sustained note that rises from inside her harmonizes with the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind and the rumble of the road beneath her.
Love. Love. Love.
8
HIPPIE AVENGER
âGo in peace, my daughter. And remember that, in a world of ordinary mortals, you are a Wonder Woman.â
â Queen Hippolyta, from the TV
series Wonder Woman , 1975â1979
H ippie Avenger thinks that her Not-So-Super Friend nickname is a bit of a misnomer.
Sure, she still drives the pea-green late-sixties Volkswagen Microbus she inherited from her parents, but it isnât because of any sentimental desire to Keep on Truckinâ or be Too Rollinâ Stoned, to quote just two of the dozens of bumper stickers permanently affixed the vanâs exterior. The old Microbus gets her from point A to point B most of the time, and she canât really afford to replace it.
And, sure, she still pulls her long, curly black hair into a ponytail when she doesnât have time to wash and style it, and she still wears the same sort of loose-fitting pastel-coloured smocks and Birkenstock sandals that sheâs worn since childhood, but none of these things are necessarily symbolic of any great dedication to the idealistic convictions of a bygone era. They are just habits.
And, sure, she doesnât own a cellphone or an MP3 player or a laptop computer or a big-screen TV or any of the other technological devices that seem so important to other people, but it isnât because she is conscientiously boycotting the material trappings of capitalism, nor is she purposely trying to keep money and therefore power out of the hands of the Military-Industrial Complex. She simply doesnât care about any of that stuff. When she is outside her apartment,
He described the frustrations of a dozen mechanical breakdowns, the pain of a hundred acidic growls from his empty stomach, the horror of the flash flood, the delirium of the long, scorching drought, the terror of staring down the barrel of an angry soldierâs rifle. He was thankful for it all, even the terrifying parts, the moments when he thought his life was over. Especially those parts. Those moments showed him what sort of material he was made of, exactly how much he could withstand if he had to.
âNow tell me about the places youâve been,â he said.
She did.
Her story took less time to tell, and had fewer stops along the way, but more splendid adjectives. Glints of copper in the steel-grey rocks. Snow banks painted pink by the setting sun. The rippling, ghostly sheets of colour that are the Northern Lights. A thousand little silver lakes viewed through the windows of Cessna and Piper single-props. And then, her recent explorations of the lights and shadows of Toronto at night.
And that was it. That was all she had.
Eventually, the orange light of a new day diffused through the single dusty window.
âWhere are you travelling next?â she asked.
âIâm going to ride up to an old friendâs cottage next weekend. Itâs a high-school reunion kind of thing. Want to come?â
As she reminded herself again, There is no such thing as love at first sight, she heard herself saying to him, âYes, I would.â
*
As The Drifter eases the Norton Commando though another gentle curve, The Stunner is still telling herself, There is no such thing as love at first sight. There is no such thing as love at first sight. There is no such thing as love at first sight.
She closes her eyes, feels the warm wind stroke her body and enjoys the vibration of the engine beneath her.
âJust a few more miles to go,â The Drifter calls back to her.
The road straightens again. He twists back the throttle, and the bike surges forward.
Love at first sight. Love at first sight. Love at first sight.
She squeezes the seat between her thighs, and the pure, sustained note that rises from inside her harmonizes with the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind and the rumble of the road beneath her.
Love. Love. Love.
8
HIPPIE AVENGER
âGo in peace, my daughter. And remember that, in a world of ordinary mortals, you are a Wonder Woman.â
â Queen Hippolyta, from the TV
series Wonder Woman , 1975â1979
H ippie Avenger thinks that her Not-So-Super Friend nickname is a bit of a misnomer.
Sure, she still drives the pea-green late-sixties Volkswagen Microbus she inherited from her parents, but it isnât because of any sentimental desire to Keep on Truckinâ or be Too Rollinâ Stoned, to quote just two of the dozens of bumper stickers permanently affixed the vanâs exterior. The old Microbus gets her from point A to point B most of the time, and she canât really afford to replace it.
And, sure, she still pulls her long, curly black hair into a ponytail when she doesnât have time to wash and style it, and she still wears the same sort of loose-fitting pastel-coloured smocks and Birkenstock sandals that sheâs worn since childhood, but none of these things are necessarily symbolic of any great dedication to the idealistic convictions of a bygone era. They are just habits.
And, sure, she doesnât own a cellphone or an MP3 player or a laptop computer or a big-screen TV or any of the other technological devices that seem so important to other people, but it isnât because she is conscientiously boycotting the material trappings of capitalism, nor is she purposely trying to keep money and therefore power out of the hands of the Military-Industrial Complex. She simply doesnât care about any of that stuff. When she is outside her apartment,
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