Tag Archives: Adrian Slonaker

Gastown Guest

Twilight creeps cunningly over the grim, gray-green shades of October. The Pineapple Express splashes reassuringly against bushes and buses onto the cobblestone a peeved pedestrian scurries along, shunning the showers for the warmth of a waiting sedan, unaware that I … Continue reading

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Stone House

Stone house— color of lead, color of slate, ivy and morning glories creeping over the walls. Sound of summer thunder growling imperiously over junipers, sound of an evergreen played deftly on a concertina, sound of whispers between youngsters yellowed by … Continue reading

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At Café Joe Moka

Rain drizzling incessantly; a bracing wind drives leaves in haphazard patterns; branches nervously sway as if to the horn-laden beat melody wafting from the café’s tinny sound system with a rhythm so charmingly infectious, even the ancient Acadian in the … Continue reading

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Date Night

Pasting together pieces of an enigma— your words, wry yet weird, send my thoughts like a plume of musk-scented smoke into the night air where my fantasies—or memories—of your step, dissipate into the mellowness of dusk. The texture of your … Continue reading

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Semiweekly Splendor

Twice each week, you arrive at my doorstep, toting macaroons and masculinity. I stir the instant coffee and light the bloblike beige candles with my Zippo. With three fat pillows properly plumped—two for you, one for me, we stretch out … Continue reading

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