17 Post-It Notes, Stolen At Random
Kelsey Blair (University of Toronto, Canada)
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The Pregnant Lady.
Bread, tuna, mayonnaise, pickles, chocolate sauce.
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Joey, 12 years old, future Casanova.
I heart you.
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Dolly, who will change her name at age 37.
You smell. You pick your nose. You are too short.
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The Husband, on his anniversary.
FLOWERS
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The Baker, every evening.
FLOUR
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Dora wakes every morning wondering what loss the day will bring. Perhaps, her brother’s name will go, like a kite blown away from inattentive hands. Maybe, she will forever lose her 7th pair of keys. Perhaps, she’ll forget to turn the stove off.
Take your pills.
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The Teenager.
Mr. Something or other called about some appointment. 892 334 4541.
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From a tender age, Lawrence thought maggots were of utmost interest, bees full of great, fuzzy, beauty. Much to his mother’s chagrin, his interest didn’t fade as he got older. In fact, it became a love. While other boys lusted after girls in tight, baggy, rainbow coloured, and black shirts, Lawrence swooned at pictures of exotic cockroaches. It was all very strange, until he started to study his PhD. The pursuit of degrees eases parents. Of course, for Lawrence, it changed nothing. He studied bugs the same way he always had: with unprecedented dedication and interest. He slept, ate, and occasionally, accidentally, inhaled his research.
Until, one day, he met Dora.
As he gets up in the morning to go observe the freshest batch of larvae, he looks at her, breathing deeply. Lawrence takes a pen and performs his most romantic act directed at a being larger than a child’s palm, leaving it on his pillow.
I miss you already.
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Becky who is trying to redefine herself as Rebecca. She would describe herself in the following way: a recently divorced single person, with a slight weight problem, a rather large bitterness issue, 10 self-help books on her bedside table, and a propensity to spill coffee on white blouses.
Today, you will leave the house in MATCHING socks.
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The Inept Burglar.
Do you have your mask?
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Whenever Paul thinks of his father, he remembers the smell of paint. When he actually smells paint, Paul throws up. His father was a painter for forty years, blending colours, throwing them against walls. As a child, Paul’s dad would come home, covered in primer, and effuse about the value of manual labour. It was “man’s work” and nothing was more important than being a man. When Paul was 16, he spent a summer painting houses with his father, finding out what it meant to be a man. Tiring hours, in sweltering sun, surrounded by buffoons who could barely get through the alphabet. It wasn’t an environment for Paul.
Typically, though no less tragically, his father didn’t take this well. When Paul went to university, chasing not only a degree, but, indeed, other men, his father stopped speaking to him. At Christmas he would point and occasionally nod. At Thanksgiving, he would grunt. Five years later, when Paul was finally accepting his degree, his father sighed and handed Paul a copy of his favourite children’s book.
On the anniversary of his father’s death, Paul takes out the book, from a box deep in storage, where his own son will never find it. He runs his hands along the cover, only ever allowing his thumb to briefly graze the note.
For you.
From Dad.
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From the Queen to the New Princess.
Under no circumstances, tell them to eat cake.
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The Poet.
Shroud, cloud, loud, bowed, endowed, allowed, crowd, disembowelled???
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One of 327 notes left by the youngest Glattowich resident, Milly, in her campaign for a pet.
Dogs build character of pet and owner.
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After a night of heavy drinking, Belinda gets out of bed. She can feel the alcohol in her flesh as though she were a piece of bread, resting in a pool of melted butter. It’s soft and icky, much like her surroundings. As Belinda rubs her arms, trying to rid herself of the sludge of a slimy bar, she realizes where she is.
Being in her sister’s place is both horrifying and muddling. Two years older, but light years more mature, Nancy doesn’t appreciate Belinda’s youthful experimentation. She thinks, rather judgementally, that twenty four is too old to be getting wasted on a fortnightly basis. Belinda disagrees, but notices her sister isn’t present. Frilly, pink, linens are annoying, but don’t actually cold her. She slowly walks to the bathroom, wondering if she should be apologetic. When she looks in the mirror, she gasps at her forehead, finally understanding why it felt slightly sticky.
You’re an idiot. There’s food in the fridge.
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The Cheeky Mother.
Directions: Leave room. Make hard right. Follow banister down stair. Turn right again. Open large door. Turn on light switch to your left. Descend stairs( watch your head). Go straight. Turn left. Look! The laundry room!!
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The final note: blank, making the page of a book, like a dog’s ear, except twice as respectful. There are no markings, no indications what words might be important. There’s just yellow stuck to the top of the page, like a sign post with no symbols or words, just a signal.
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Kelsey Blair is an emerging Canadian writer. She attends the University of Toronto and has been published in Toward the Light, Inscribed, Qarrtsiluni, The Moose and Pussy, TORO and Cinephile. She likes her coffee black, her tea green, and her strawberries in all forms but jam.
