Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Theresa White

Her tendency toward being nearly trampled was alarming in Sporting event related settings. A hockey game, of all things, she had chosen a hockey game. Theresa White, so nearly run down by so many buses, so many horses, so many cars, sat nervously next to the ice rink. Would the thick protective plastic really deflect the hard plastic puck? Of, for that matter, would it withstand the force of so many helmeted and armoured bodies careening against it? A hockey game, of all things. She wondered why she had left Seattle, the warm safe interior of her home. The predictable rise and fall of a loaf after loaf of bread. Coming here, to Canada, on whim, could spell disaster. There was nothing but hockey and moose and tall trees to be trampled by- or crushed by. Like those cartoon characters on the side walk that are crushed by pianos or lead weights, or any measure of heavy falling object. A puck hit the plastic with a resounding crack, making her jump. It hurtled full force off of the plexiglass and into the goal. The crowd roared A hockey game, of all places.

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