“something ought to grow here”

Short stories, Vancouver vignettes, and poems for a collaborative work with photographer Rik Morel.

“Something ought to grow here,” Joyce announced. She picked up a discarded newspaper and rolled it quickly in her rough hands until it was a long thin tube. This first step was easy. She waved the tube above her head, opened her mouth, and laughed.
On her way to catch the SkyTrain, Ashley looked at Joyce and misread her mirth. It was spring and Joyce was wearing a heavy winter coat nearly worn through at the elbows and much too large for her small frame. Ashley quickened her steps. Behind tight lips she ran her tongue across her teeth.
Joyce walked across the plaza with the rolled newspaper held firmly in one hand. Every few steps she stopped and jabbed the roll of paper at the concrete. “Not nearly ready.” She said.
Richard, on exiting the building, saw Joyce and reached into his pocket. She was not facing him however, and he could not see any hat or can or receptacle near by. By the time Joyce finished crossing the plaza and had turned back toward the building entrance, Richard’s long strides had taken him far down the street. He never saw the determined look on her face.
Joyce shook her head. Despite the abundance of water and the open space, the ground was unyielding and would not support life. She seized one end of the roll of newspaper and bent it at right angles to the shaft. She had seen a hoe somewhere, her childhood, or a movie, or even in a book. With two hands on the tool, she backed across the plaza, working the concrete as she went.
It was rush hour. A man, whose car chanced to stop near the woman, recognized her motion. He rolled down the passenger side window and leaned across the empty seat to call out at her, “What are you planting?”
Joyce paused, holding the rolled newspaper hoe beneath her folded arms, as if it were supporting her weight. Some memory brought an accent to her throat. “I reckon I don’t know what I should be planting.” Joyce drawled, “What do you figure will grow here?” She queried.
“Money,” said the man, driving off.