The Society - St. Peter`s College

The Society
volume 13, 2016
St. Peter’s College
Contributors
Poetry
Dave Margoshes
Christian Riegel
Miriam Clavir
30
5
Sadie Perkins
32
5, 9
Br. Kurt Van Kuren
33
Catherine Fenwick
5
Kanna Jorde
35
Veronica Hermiston
6
Vijay Kachru
36
Ethan Paslowski
6
Sandra Campbell
38
William Robertson
6
Donna Costley
39
gillian harding-russell
7
Michele Yeager
40
Naicam Class of 2017
7
Rebecca Costello
42
Sylvia Legris
8
Gail Bowen
42
Elizabeth Greene
8
Tiffany Banow
9
Nonfiction
Michael Cleveland
9
Kelley Jo Burke
3
Tim Lilburn
10
Sharon Bird
43
Sarah Miller
10
Susan Hathiramani
44
Angeline Schellenberg
10
Rose Tournier
45
Kyla Brietta
10
Dee Robertson
46
Mari-Lou Rowley
11
Diana Koenning
47
Maureen Scott Harris
11
Andrew Hartman
48
Lynda Monahan
11
Braylee-Anne Reidy
11
Images
Nancy Mackenzie
14
Tiffany Banow
Dave Carpenter
15
Amber Beingessner
Helen E. Herr
15
Grayson Berting
6
dennis cooley
16
James Sanderson
9
Nicola Classen
17
Laura Kneeshaw
Irteqa Khan
18
Joyce Jamlan
14
Anna Tang
20
Zoira Buslig
15
Karen Klassen
20
Heather Pratchler
18
Glen Sorestad
20
Irteqa Khan
21
Amanda Derksen
22
Asia Daum
22
cover, 27
2, 5
12, 13
Rose Willow
23
Tomika Daum
23
Shelley Banks
23
Allan Neilsen
24
Sydney Gobeil
25
Anthony Schellenberg
26
Sally Ito
27
Cassandra Ovans
26
Vernie Reifferscheid
27
Amanda Derksen
27
Linda Pâté
28
Gurleen Lehal
28
Roni Muench
3
Sadie Perkins
28
Alexis Abello
29
Dee Robertson
46
Jordan Bosch
29
Alannah Penny
back cover
Fiction
Editorial
As a college student here at St. Peter’s, getting the opportunity to see the work and imagination of emerging
writers and artists brought forth in the Society is something I am truly grateful for. The campus itself offers so
much opportunity for inspiration, whether that be in the form of short stories, poetry, nonfiction, or the visual
arts. From “Aeolian Ember” by Nancy Mackenzie (giving this Irish student a sense of nostalgia and a sweet
reminder of her home) to “Love Beyond Borders” by Diana Koenning (making the heart burst with empathetic
emotions of loss and hope), this year’s copy of the Society is filled with beautiful work. It bursts with stunning
photography and artwork, too, with pieces like “Evening Ride” by Anthony Schellenberg (showing a beautiful
sleigh in the heart of winter) and the detailed structure of a knight by Laura Kneeshaw. We are also grateful this
year for the enormous number of contributions from those who know St. Peter’s by reputation or who have visited
here, the amazing writers and artists who have come to us as teachers, readers, and guests from across Canada.
Having been lucky enough to be introduced to such a wide variety of pieces, and even having had the opportunity
to meet some of the creators of these fine works, makes this year’s volume that much sweeter. I hope the Society
brings you a fine range of emotions, joy and darkness, reflections and laughter.
Rebecca Costello
Editor
Self Portrait
Amber Beingessner
Visual Art Editor
Editorial Team
Rebecca Costello, Amber Beingessner, Sarah Miller, Sadie Perkins,
Clint Hunker, Grant McConnell, Barbara Langhorst, Rosie Lines.
2
Blossoms and Toads: A Manifesto
by Kelley Jo Burke
There are all kinds of liars. There is only one kind of
deceiver.
There’s a story I’ve always loved about two sisters, one favoured by her mother, though she was lazy,
mean-mouthed and shiftless, and the other hated for
being pretty much the opposite and making everybody
look bad. That’s a story in itself, but the focus here is
on when the second girl gets sent on some kind of very
hard dirty errand and meets up with an old woman
or man or rabbit, I don’t know, something weak and
seemingly without any capacity to reward kindness
with anything but a craggy or buck-toothed grin—depending on which guess is right back there. Anyway
the girl is asked to do something twice as hard and
nasty for this unfortunate and she does it, just cause,
if she were in the same spot she›d like someone to do
the same for her; not that anyone ever has. But such is
the reputation of empathy, it is looked for where it has
never even stopped by for tea.
The task completed, the girl is rewarded (insert
magical whammy sound here) for her kindness. Every
time she speaks, a flower or a jewel tumbles from her
mouth—just one—and I like to think she was also given
the ability to repress this talent at will—as love-making, attending sports matches and other things would
be, I think, unpleasant if the talent couldn’t go into idle
for a bit. Anyway, it’s a great gift and stupe that she is,
she goes home and tells her mom.
Mom is torn between greater hatred of the girl
and intense pleasure at all the things she’s going to
be able to buy with the take from one dinnertime
conversation alone. She orders her favoured child off
to wherever the first went—it was a well, I now recall,
water had to be hauled over a great and rocky distance—to get magically enhanced as well. Of course the chosen one doesn’t even know the
way there—she’s never had to haul water, couldn’t
be cheerfully helpful to anyone, least of all an unfortunate, if her life depended on it. When asked to be
just that, she instead angrily demands her gift. The old
whatever-it-is gleefully lays a different whammy on
her. Toads and snakes start falling from her mouth—
especially, I like to think, during love-making and
sports matches.
As I recall, Blossom and Gem Girl gets married
to some fella who is taken with her gifts. This part
worries me a bit. Where was he when she was hauling
buckets of water over stony miles for the two bitches?
So I’m going to tell you that she leaves on her own, and
meets someone during a sports match who loves her
before anything gorgeous tumbles out.
When I try to write truth, things tumble out of
me. They’re not jewels and roses very often. But I can
tell you that rubies have a very slight cherry Lifesaver
aftertaste. And if a flower has to find its way across a
ticklish palate, better a nasturtium than a sunflower—
though there is a greater sense of achievement with
the latter.
It is the most often ordinary truths I cough up—
buttons, hairpins, screws for wall-mounting something
I gave away in the late eighties. Dog hair. Little boys’
socks.
And sometimes, it is toads. Or snakes. Something
slippery and close enough but nothing like truth. And I
want to let it tumble out. Oh yes I do.
But this is my promise—when it is a toad or a
snake, I will never make you hold out your hands in
anticipation of a gem or a blossom. I will never let it
out at all. I’ll feel the hysterical push and flutter. Warm
silk-leather trying to push between my lips. Panicked
piss on my tongue. And the bile’s burn as I swallow it
wriggling down.
Because I’m a liar. Several kinds of liars. But not
the other.
Yellow Blouse
by Roni Muench
Eloise, it’s goin’ on day two with that top.
Blouse, mamma, blouse.
Top, blouse, tomata, tomato. And you aint the size
of your auntie Ann, all skin and bones she was even
before the end… that button is ready to come clear off
any time now.
Eloise went to the bedroom where she slept
in the same bed as her little sister and dropped the
laundry basket to the floor. She stood sideways before
the long narrow mirror and cupped her hands over her
breasts like they were little bird’s she had to keep from
flying away but didn’t want to smother the life out of.
When she moved, the silky fabric fluttered against her
skin like a butterfly almost landing over and over.
Eloise, you got fifteen minutes to be in that barn
and help your brother. Get that damn top off.
She moved her arms up and down like wings, the
billowy yellow sleeves following behind with a rhythm
that reminded her of a dancer on a stage.
What in hell you doin’? Her mother was standing
in the doorway.
Eloise put her arms up into a little peak over her
head and tried to make her fingers touch. She lifted her
chin and closed her eyes. She took a deep bow before
the mirror so that her head was below her knees and
she lost her balance a little.
Her mother let out a chuckle and waved her arm
to the side as she walked away.
You gonna have my build sure as anything, she
said.
Eloise started to take the blouse off with extra
3
care as though it were old and fragile like her greatgrandmothers wedding dress. She handled the blouse
the same way as when they took the ugly black dress
out of the box to show relatives who came to visit from
far away. She wondered if they really wanted to see
it. She didn’t call it ugly but thought it was, thought
how lucky she was to be in a time where she could
wear a blouse like her Auntie’s instead of a dress like
that. In her mind the black dress matched up with her
grandmother’s character, the way she looked put out
by everything, never smiling even in a birthday picture,
thin and stiff as a nail with a head on top. This is how
Eloise pictured her, even though she only remembered
bits and pieces. But her grandfather made up for it,
a big man who passed out candies, who laughed at
everything, so that people sometimes shook their
head.
We can sew that button a little tighter after
chores, her mother called out, so the damn thing won’t
fall away on you. Where are we gonna find a button
like that if it falls away?
Eloise hung the blouse in her closet with a plastic
bag over the shoulders. She changed into her everydayclothes and walked to the barn. Her brother was
carrying two pails of chop across the feedlot so she
took one pail from him and carried it with two hands,
trying to keep up. He put one finger to the side of his
nose and blew. He never answered the questions Eloise
asked about her Auntie’s death, which was really a lead
into the big question of what other things her Auntie
might have had and who got them because she had no
family at all. He took the pail of chop from her hand
and told her to go to the garden instead.
She watched him walk away. She thought her
brother was handsome but couldn’t tell him. There
was a girl he brought home last year, pretty as a singer
on a record cover but nice enough to pay attention
to Eloise and her little sister. Eloise liked to watch
them, how the pretty girl kissed her brother in front
of everyone. But he seemed to push the girl away,
ignoring her hand in his lap like it was no more than a
napkin or a breadcrumb, leaving her sit alone for too
long when he checked the score or took a call. Maybe
he was embarrassed by the patches of uncut grass
and his fathers lack of words at the table, ashamed of
the uncle who had a cot on the veranda, his shadowy
figure behind the yellow blinds she glanced at now and
then, the smell of work and life wherever you went;
grease, shit, fried meat, unwashed cream pitchers,
mould and damp. The smell of barely making ends
meet.
Eloise went to the garden and grabbed the hoe at
one end of a long row of potatoes.
She thought about it all, about her brother and
the girl who came and went like a little rumour, about
the unexpected death of her Auntie and her mysterious
life in the city and her dried up grandmother who
looked like something might be crawling over her. She
4
thought about the wheat coming up thin as toothpicks,
so short it barely swayed with the wind, everyone
holding their breath about it.
Her chest started to feel heavy with all of
her thoughts but the feeling went away when she
remembered the yellow blouse. She wondered again
what other things her Auntie might have had in her
closet and what become of her things, who might have
gotten them and why.
The garden was great in size, not one end weeded
when the other needed you back. It was a relief when
the last potato sac was hauled into the basement,
when the first snow dusted the earth and covered the
fallow field, when the jars of fruits and vegetables were
lined up and the crop was in or turned down; when
you knew where you were at with it. Eloise liked that
time of year best. She liked going to town for school
supplies, liked the
smell of markers and erasers and opening the zipper on
a new pencil case and deciding which colour notebook
would be for which class.
She put the hoe over her shoulders to stretch and
saw her mother walking from the barn to the house.
She looked at her mother’s body that moved like she
was climbing a little hill with each step and felt glad she
wasn’t her, glad she was young and could slip into such
a pretty blouse without it not working because you
were old. She didn’t think it with words. The feeling
just popped up without her wanting it. But it dawned
on her for the first time ever that her mother wasn’t
always her mother; that she was just like her before,
just a girl with things she wanted and maybe couldn’t
get. She looked at the blue sweater her mother always
wore, a panacea on the second
hook in the shabby entrance. She looked at the brown
pants and short rubber boots that were meant for a
man, at the large soft body she didn’t want but that
was comforting like the smell of baking and rain that
came on time. Her brother and father were following
her mother toward the house, one ahead of the other,
stooped, silent, tamed by mother earth and market
trends.
It was lunch.
Eloise stabbed the hoe into the ground but it fell
over. Little bugs scattered away.
She pulled a raspberry from the raspberry
patch and then another and walked to the house
her laughing Grandfather built. She went through
the flimsy screen door, past the barn coats hanging
on hooks, past the row of muddy boots and cream
pitchers and the pile of laundry just off the line.
She walked into the kitchen and moved toward
the blue sweater like a little fish reeled in by a strong
hand. She put her arms around her mother’s waist
from behind, pressed the side of her face against
against the nubby sweater and closed her eyes.
She took a deep breath in and stayed there a long
time.
Quinzee
(for Dave Carpenter)
by Dave Margoshes
Start with a snowball in your hand, an idea.
Shovel after shovel, the idea grows, snowballs
into a parody of itself. This takes a day or two,
or half an hour or less for a front-end loader,
but where’s the art in that? Stand back
and inspect your handiwork, a big Jesus pile
of snow, rounded. Then get on your knees
and begin to dig. Think Holland Tunnel,
straight in, till you’re absorbed. Snow
muffles sound and those outside think you’ve
packed it in. You have, but you haven’t left
and the scat of snow you leave behind is
your mark for those who can read it. The cave
grows larger in proportion to the thinning
of the walls, this much is physics. What
goes beyond science into art and religion
is the light, light so delicate you hate to cut
into it, afraid it will shatter. Outside, there
is panic, you’ve been gone so long, days
without word except for the endless stream
of snow the tunnel disgorges. The heat
of the snow leaches into the air, suffocating.
You eat snow, drink your own sweat. You
know that all the bad jokes are starting
to come true, you are growing younger,
sliding backwards into the womb, that with
a final shovel you’ll be reborn.
After Praxilla of Sycion
by Christian Riegel
In the lovely full moon you stand
silly Praxilla, she of ripe cucumbers,
apples and pears, and I ask
‘are you fair haired, sun bleached?
Do you walk along the Corinthian Gulf,
look to the morning star or galaxies beyond,
bow to Adonis, beholden to beauty
of taut muscle and youthful bloom?’
I strain to catch a glimmer on
the Ionian Sea, moon light and
a bowl of fruit perhaps, seek
a glimpse of joy at seedling’s first sighting or
wild caterwauling at summer’s end,
cycle of gardens that grow and wither.
Oh Praxilla! You offer but a sliver
of pear, apple, scrap of cucumber,
fragment of solace in winter’s dark hours.
Trees And Old Poets
by Catherine Fenwick
Air breathes around naked old branches
that open and fold in on themselves.
Spring buds promise a canopy, shade
for a hammock, where I ponder poetics,
watch young robins learn to fly, squirrels
with bulging cheeks hurry to their nests.
Leaves yellow and fall on the thirsty earth.
I rake and burn curled up remains
and lines that don’t work.
Beside Wascana Creek
the aging elm with roots reaching deep
smiles on old poets.
William Carlos Williams retires
from medicine, survives a stroke. Writes
Pictures From Brueghel, wins Pulitzer.
Anne Szumigalski, pens four decades
of poetry. When Earth Leaps Up,
published after her death.
Leonard Cohen at eighty
choreographs new moves.
Still masters the domain of desire.
Harriet Doerr publishes first novel
at seventy-three.
Stones For Ibarra called a perfect book.
Bare old tree reaches bony arms
frost shivers the air.
I untie hammock, open my laptop.
Tape Measure In Ink
Amber Beingessner
5
My Terry
by Veronica Hermiston
boy and bird
by William Robertson
My Terry did not want to go I know this in my heart
He thought his pain was his alone and I should have no part
my father preached like fire
kept burning himself
I understand how life’s events could cause him to lose hope
But oh my heart aches for his touch his smile his warm embrace
I do not know how to cope
my mother gave light
simply refusing all darkness
I miss My Terry with all my heart and pray that he is at peace
His fight to stay slowly eroded away and now he is finally free
Sometimes my pain and loneliness are more than I can bear
But then I think of our strong love that few have come to share
I must respect my Terry’s choice he did not want to burden
His actions of a Samari were honorable I am certain
My life has changed I feel so lost My Terry and I apart
It is just for now while on this earth that his pain is in my heart
May I request to any of you who are ever in despair
Please think of this and reconsider if your pain is better shared.
my father was huge
pierced my mind like a steeple
my mother was a washing machine
we all knew how to use
my father threw his big car into neutral
thought he could coast to the end
my mother baked more cookies
broke her hip on the church floor
my father’s become the boy
I want to hold and forgive
my mother’s a little bird
it wants to sing, it wants to live
The Stone takes many shapes
But it is not your own.
It may be as soft as plush
But deep down, dense as bone.
I considered the red fox black-velvet
footed around the cluster of
yellowing trees, and
thought I could cup the bird in my hands
in a prayer of wings
and bring this living heart beat
home. One way die a quicker death.
The other the greater death
of terror of the unknown
so I decided to leave the broken
bird to hop along making
do, as familiarly as
sun? Better than to die in a makeshift box
lined with a vestige of yellow grass).
The Stone takes much abuse
it is cut, melted, and broke.
Appearance may not seem like much
but they treat it like a joke.
The Stone appears solid and proud
yet is lost inside a box.
It is very quickly forgotten
as happens to objects such as rocks.
The Stone is lost in darkness black
yet a tiny light still shines.
There is hope after all
All it needs now is time.
6
A bird hopped in the dying grass
I followed along the path, why was
it not doing what it was made
to do, fly? I saw its deer eye, whiteringed black and tear-shaped
though no expression in a bird
(something amiss with its wing,
the way it hitched its right one up)
it could, with insects in the grass, handicapped, but perhaps there was still a chance
that it would fly over the hours and
into the afternoon
The Stone
by Ethan Paslowski
The Stone morphs into a diamond
as small and frightful as an elf.
But there is strength inside the Stone,
because all that can cut it is itself.
Today
by gillian harding-russell
Vase of Flowers
Grayson Berting
I Am A Grade 12 Student
by the Naicam Class of 2017
(Homage to Duke Redbird)
I am a long yawn in need of caffeine
due to the midnight essay fight.
I am a neck brace healing whiplash, potholes five-feet deep.
I am a fading tan as the year moves on
I am a football getting thrown against the chilly September wind
I am the echo of skin screeching on the gym floor
and the vertigo from the second pirouette
I am the team cheers drowning out the blast of the ref’s whistle
I am the coffee in my cup – aroma hot and bold
Conqueror of the late night practices
I am an overworked brain, unable to think
I am the writer’s cramp on paragraph five
I am the final eraser shavings at the end of an impossible math test
I am a student waiting for the very last bell
I am exhaustion setting in after the everlasting school day
I am a crazy teenager burning rubber at 3:25
I am ME – it’s who I am
THE STRUGGLE IS REAL
I am a busy day with no free time
I am a techie daydreaming of videogames unplayed
I am a half-paid car blaring music and dropping beats
I am student by day – superhero by night
I am misunderstood by the masses
I am a diploma waiting to be picked up
I am a long shift on a hot summer’s day
Grain screaming, chaff itching.
I am a cruise around town under a harvest moon
I am an empty dorm, waiting to be occupied
I am a career waiting to begin
I am a daddy’s little girl, forever, I suppose
I am not where I have been
I am where I’m going
7
H. muscivorus
by Sylvia Legris
And the sky watched that superb carcass blossom like a flower...
—Baudelaire (trans. Keith Waldrop)
O blowfly bait!
O blow flies the carrion!
The showy Helicodiceros bleeds a floral trompe l’oeil.
Dead Horse Arum lily a rosy mucousy trap.
One flash of the perennially anal Pig Butt Arum
and the bluebottles are swarming.
Alas another worms-its-way calculating cadaver
has landed. Meat-corrupt and lily-carcassed.
Death yet again dressed as beauty.
A necrotizing tease.
Cluster the disingenuous death-, the rotten fleshflower, neither true corpse nor true lily.
The fetidly deceptive inflorescence—
the hairy feral spathe, the swine-stiff stink.
Lavender
by Tiffany Banow
Lavandula angustifolia
In spring
I discovered potted lavender
pure and faultless.
Planted it in my garden, certain
I could beat the odds
and keep it as a hardy perennial.
It didn’t survive the winter.
Now
everything is lavender
bath soap, fabric rinse
cleaning solution I dilute to scrub the floor.
It is not regret
It’s something more sinister
mucky
like grime under my fingernails
mud stuck to the soles of my shoes
the purple murk-shadow of distrust.
What you did was dirty.
At 72
by Elizabeth Greene
There is nothing like the sun as the year dies.
—Edward Thomas
Splashing sheer gold through maple leaves
Polishing late berries to Pompeiian red
Sparkling the waves of the dusk blue lake
This sun says year’s end has begun.
A last tiny mauve chrysanthemum
Slides shyly into bloom, unfolding while
The garden shrinks to brown and later, white.
Days brisk yet tender
Plummet to early nights.
Yet dark does lovely things to light.
There is no sun like the November sun.
Note: I’m indebted to Eva Hesse “maybe dark does beautiful things to it [light]” as the inspiration for
“dark does lovely things to light.”
8
I never did believe
we were headed for certain death.
Untitled 3
by Michael Cleveland
The industrial beast devoured the very ones
who had toiled to build it up-mortared its bricks with the flesh and the blood
as the sacrament of progress
And, if one listens closely in the dead of
night when the last train engine has long since
passed, you can hear their screams;
Model Ron
James Sanderson
Bird in a Tree
by Christian Riegel
This poem demands a mourning dove
tawny, hiding high on a worn brown branch—
my garden below, green and serene space
to ponder, pen poised over notebook ready
to record.
This was not the world
they had envisioned
dying for.
9
End of August
by Tim Lilburn
Queen Anne’s lace, lurk
of vetch in forests, white
clover shaken in a fist of final bees,
dust chalks everywhere.
And the gloom of fireweed
in abandoned quarries,
autumn’s vampiric looks;
a leaf falls from oceanspray,
this is thinking.
A dog barks,
cold pours its slag
in a scoop through sky.
The hoard of neglect
is in the beauty-vault of things.
Fewer than eight red pear leaves
among sodden pine needles on my low shed roof.
Things Must End To Start Anew
by Sarah Miller
the gravel road twists in front like the memories in my mind
I pause and think of you and all the times we had
feeding the chirping chickadees peanuts from our hands the amazement in my eyes
this place
this light
the trees
the grass
they all remind me of you
a smile spreads across my face a spark comes to my eye here I found true love
this place this light The trees the grass they all remind me of you
as I drive the dust settles behind
it reminds me that the current situation will also rectify
10
Making Sheep
by Angeline Schellenberg
It hurts, Oma.
Na so. Oma’s swollen
knuckles enfold an apple, and she
peels the skin, red
and ready. Her twisted fingers
slice the fruit toward her belly,
dripping juices on her dress.
She lays down for me spotless
shearlings, Schaefchen –
baby sheep she calls these
wedges, onto my tongue
they follow one after
another, silent
and sound.
Broken Words
by Kyla Brietta
Pen scratches page
Splits the script of my design
Ink run dry
L’amour Precession
by Mari-Lou Rowley
A comparatively slow gyration
formerly,
in Platonic years
the intimate relationship
between space and time.
[Nutation]
The sway and nod
in the axis of rotation,
the invisible pull
of pelvis
to heart.
Now
heightened
energy states:
excitation and flux
the interaction between text and touch
digital kick or caress.
Small magnetic moments
stored in the cloud
a sigh, a sob
echo delay.
[The outer product of the wave function
with itself].
melding
by Lynda Monahan
here the frozen lake
is built around silence
a chill stillness
on the empty beach
a child’s yellow pail
the horizon leans into
the ice laced water
a silver blending
the lake is frozen sky
melding one with the other
two loons
paddle the patches
of open water
calling into the dusk
the husk of old mother moon
for many years
these tall pine sentinels
swayed in the wind
near the lakeshore winter killed
the old ones end their watch
scent of wolf willow
on the fresh washed air below the weir
a cinnamon bear lifts his nose
tasting the warmth and light
Bucket rain comes down
It pours onto the tree tops
As my heart falls out
Blue letters with swirls
Blotchy punctuation
Blurry, through my eye
Bonds of our own hearts
By blood tears stain eternal
God watches it all
Eye does as pen will not
Dripping onto paper
Truth of feeling
Words pour on the page
Space fills with the imagery
Soul clashes with pen
Words break apart
And slur together
Poetry of healing
Advice for a New Broom
by Maureen Scott Harris
Don’t whistle while you work. Keep
your head down, your thoughts to yourself.
Ignore the temptations of music and spells
but strike a firm rhythm as you reach
without hesitation into tangles of cobwebs.
Forget your distaste for dust, your inclination
to be bored by repetition. Embrace the lop-sided.
Let go of the hidden talent you’ve held in reserve.
Disappointment and soot teach patience.
Get down and dirty crawling into the dark
under fridge and cupboard, recovering the lost
and forgotten, the never-before-noticed. When
your bristles break and split, rustling like dry
leaves in the wind, you are ready to rise into
another life. Dishevelled and awry, take flight.
Untitled
by Braylee-Anne Reidy
All
The
Colours
Of
The
Rainbow
Yet
Poetry
Is
The
Black
And
White
Rain.
11
Untitled
Laura Kneeshaw
12
Untitled
Laura Kneeshaw
13
Aeolian Ember
by Nancy Mackenzie
You are a song from Donegal
played on a fidil
in the broken hand of a girl
with a burnt face
and I am the old viola bow
retrieved from a basement
that she draws across her strings.
The song from Donegal
like a dram of Dalwhinnie
smooth and heathery
was passed down in the oral tradition
to the girl with the broken hand
by fiddlers gathered round peat fires
evoking the wind and the rain
at play in their green fields.
Aeolian embers
played on a fidil
in the broken hand of a girl
with a burnt face.
Whether she sits upon a wooden stool
or strides out into emerging darkness
as she turns her burnt face
to the tuning of the old viola
or returns to her own fidil
she rehearses the song from Donegal
and the angels sing their windsongs
among the fantastic stars.
After Emily Carr
Zoira Buslig
And I am the fine viola bow
played on a fidil
in the broken hand of a girl
with a burnt face.
Creek song lilts among peaty banks
following the breeze’s breath
bathing these Aeolean embers
with all the promise of a kiss.
You, with all your power and harmony and grace
the sum of which you do not, you can not know
without the song describing you thus
from my guts, this small truth
that the girl brought home
from the far borders of Ireland:
that this song conjured by a kiss of that bow
caught by our two angels, in passing, cheek-to-cheek
held breath, like a plucked string, or a pause
for a dram of Dalwhinnie, a smile on our faces
burnt there like kisses from an angel
an ember like hope sunk deep in the belly.
The Bath
by Helen E. Herr
Wet bar soap fish-tails
smacks black and white
edge of tub
tuxedo tile,
hop-scotch style.
My fishers’ wrist
reels the slippery soap
into my bath,
splattering walls.
You are the song from Donegal
memorized by the girl’s fingers
even in their brokenness
like our promise to meet by the summer swing.
soap massages my palms
repeating the pendulum swing
of my grandfather’s clock (back and forth
back and forth)
until bubbles swim between
my toes, over thighs,
circle moons around
my breasts.
universe
by Dave Carpenter
let us praise the happenstance that
allows us to spin around the sun
the miracle beyond chaos that permits
all sighted beings to gaze up at the moon
wonder at the Milky Way
I am one of those multitudes
Landscape
Joyce Jamlan
14
moving with other multitudes
through the crowded streets of the world
Let me retain that state on the planet
to be a tiny piece of the here
a little bit of the now
Almost submerged,
I observe salmon spawning
the shower curtain,
streaking blue water
orange.
I blush.
Pull the plug.
Sit transfixed as bath water
gurgles into obscurity;
quicker than childhood games
become obsolete,
or a lover’s story
smells fishy.
15
Drew and I
by Nicola Classen
I have not loved many
The way I have loved you.
In fact,
Exactly none.
abandoned
by dennis cooley
in europe “soufflenheim”—a breathing home
(the letter “h” a breathing
(the slow
exhalations
day in & day out night in & night out
the ribs distend
one of the houses thinks it can hear winter
feel the flutter from a lamp
the faint smell of kerosene
the pop of woodstove
dishes rattling where time gathers
eyes poked out
house leans &
the fences are leaking wind
There have been I am sure my other love
Would be distressed to learn that
Despite having six times as many months
To our joined names
There was
A third the passion
I wonder
Would I have been content
With mediocre love
And a last name
Of downing ash
listens
the clack of disks in the separator the sewing
machine speeds soft snap of cards a cry at night is it the phone from its
small cabinet the building still hears the dog scratching the door stares at
the road with empty face. the houses watch for their return, sink into their
loneliness they want to gesture like bewildered dogs all night the house
talks to itself
in thistle the rooms with broken eyes
and wagons pass
the sun every day bends and tilts
looks into drawers
the air tinged in dust
Do you remember Watching the sunset fall on my cheeks
You said mine was the first beauty
You had truly seen
in the yard huge machines
dredged from ancient seas
the house holds itself
very still & listens
to the weight of nothing
16
more & more all it hears
is time passing
in & out
I have never depended
On others for my happiness
But you certainly made my heart
Light
But such as a forest
Turned to charcoal
By flame
Our hearts
Crumbled in the heat
Is my inevitable
Heartbreak
Worth the lady bugs
In my veins
Pesticides will do no good
I do not consider them pests
But reminders of the sweet things
You once said
Do you remember
The joy that stained your face
When the horoscope told you
How well an Aries would suit your Taurus
No
I suppose not
As this Drew and I
Sparked matches
And left lips ablaze
I have considered
Putting up a fight
Against these
Infectious insects
To no avail
Do you remember
My tiny feet in your long socks
Dancing to Black Coffee
Trying my hardest
To seduce your heart
As you stand
With my heart between your teeth
Be sure to bite down tight
17
VII.
The hem is soaked. Will they have it for break fast? It is heavy, perfumed with wherever-whoever-made-it. I think I
will take the tinny spoon with me to where the splintered Zoetrope sits, I think I will like it, I think I will dream.
Analytical Still Life
Heather Pratchler
VIII.
Regeneration, when did thousands of hands fold into an open book? I looked into the elbows of Codeine Lily and
drew myself a destiny. Three things I must do:
1. Un-repair the Zoetrope.
2. End the nacht ants.
3. Lap the blooded Spoon.
VIIII.
Paris (the dandy) loved the flesh of fruits. Transmogrifying pears to an apple, an apple to lusty augen, lusty augen
to the Swan’s daughter. I think about it, Paris must have been a horologist. An artiste with rubicund cheeks and pale
abdomen, hands smeared in tin, little tickbird on fire.
X.
The dandy horologist contrived the renewed Zoetrope, standing on the Styx asleep.
XI.
Mother, what of this Moon we share?
Lagniappe
by Irteqa Khan
“Peace be Upon the Coral,” whistled Codeine Lily.
I.
With honey in the hair, kneeling on skinny kneecaps, the nacht ants stir by scuttling hem. Sweet smell, oh sweet
smell, oh sweet is the smell of this Zoetrope by the mango basket, honey hanging from the eyes, lagniappe falling in drops of flight. The hair has become the sun – golden, soft, round like a belly made of flesh and polymathy.
Remember how big the nacht ants were yesternight?
II.
Oh Sophistry! Take back your hungering little Trojans! Seeing, sweeping, sleeping, stealing.
III.
Honey in the Hair, this paradise providing the pitted with pleasure. Between the boned triangles of joint touching
the earth, the sun sings to a reflection of paradise. There are drops there too.
IV.
Codeine Lily has a chest of spoons. One is flowery, One is blooded, One is tinny. I know which is to feed the nacht
ants. This night, before going back to the river (fishing for sheep) and clasping shards of Troy’s cracked little
Zoetrope (es ist da, es ist da), may I line my fingers with flowers? Placed the spoon by my bedside, I feel a slender
warmth near my arm. Helen? Hovering? Hereafter? Nay, rain and the smell of smoke together in one bed remind
me of Troy. Sparta knows only apples.
V.
The nacht ants hear my humour. Crawling and sprawling. When will the dais be fool less?
VI.
Codeine Lily loves Coral. “It is my hive.” She brought me Honey in the Hair one steaming twilight. Does it grow between the coiffed roots? Where can I find some? I took the flowery spoon last night and dreamt of Troy, not Helen.
Helen must return home. To where the apples grow like flowers.
18
XII.
The tinny spoon drank me and regurgitated Paris. Paris drank the tinny spoon and regurgitated me. I drank the
tinny spoon and regurgitated Paris. Pain. Why, even the nacht ants fled to the frogs. No dreams, no flowers, no
apples. Just a liquid horologist’s studio. Paris gave me his young bow, the one that killed the Prince of the Myrmidons. What good is a weapon in a workshop of watches? (Warten), I destroy the reanimated Zoetrope with young
bow, clad in poppies.
XIII.
Who bore the nacht ants?
XIV.
Afore yester night, my last night, I fed them currants. Honey still in the Hair. They cried and yoked their sabers,
ready to phantasmagoria, no longer the heirs of the past Zoetrope.
XV.
“Once more, the last one.” Offered Codeine Lily.
XVI.
I lapped the Blooded spoon, ready for godhood. I lapped the Blooded spoon, facing godhood. I lapped the Blooded
spoon, falling from godhood. I lapped the Blooded spoon, Honey still in the Hair, a Lagniappe for tonight.
XVII.
No nacht ants; No spoons; No dreams; No Troy.
XVIII.
(Liebe an), Momentary Man.
19
October Snapshots
by Anna Tang
i.
Spring Fall cleaning. Decluttering the heart. Placing logs in the
fireplace. Shaking summer out of your hair. Lighting candles.
Breathing crisp air. Scrubbing the skin. Burning. Becoming
again.
ii.
Watching a torrent of red and yellow leaves cascade to the
ground, as if the tree who surrendered them is eager for
winter. Wondering why humans don’t shed past seasons of
their lives as freely as the forest does. We cling to our leaves
as if we will never feel warm again, as if there is not beauty in
falling.
iii.
Getting pupils dilated. Being offered sunglasses along with the
optometrist’s warning: “All the light in the world will enter your
eyes, regardless of how bright.” Thinking back to her, “That
doesn’t sound like such a bad thing. Maybe I won’t have to look
as hard for it as I normally do.”
iv.
Noticing that the roses in the backyard have waited until
October to bloom—a time where all the other plants are harsh
and shivering. Wondering if humans could also learn how not
to shrink away in the absence of warmth.
We Only Have One Hour
by Karen Klassen
We can’t believe Mother
finally said yes
a word as rare as bought bread
at our house. Rose and I scamper
to freedom, the screen door banging
on our heels, before Mother
can change her mind.
Blueberry stained fingers drop
dimes on the counter
leave a mound of towels
cartwheel into the deep end, spring off
the high dive, starfish float when
a boy all freckles and teeth
pushes my head under water
holds me there. I kick,
prop elbows onto the ledge
but he tugs, my lips smack concrete.
I choke back tears
like mouthfuls of cold porridge,
my eyes search for the lifeguard
busy talking to a tiny orange bikini.
v.
Tracing the jagged lines of an EKG printout. Realizing that even
our heartbeats have their own landscape. There are mountains
and valleys created within us every minute we are alive.
Anger bubbles hot as a pot
of borscht. I mermaid kick
until I find Freckles standing in a sea
of legs, his back exposed.
My fingernails rake from the base
of his neck to the elastic of his
waistband.
vi.
Tripping backwards. Lying on the front lawn at dusk.
Unexpectedly catching sight of a purple sunset, the sun sipping
plum wine from the cupped palms of the sky. Exhaling into the
light.
He shrieks as blood starts to run.
We leap over the chain link fence
terrified we’ll be caught
and our swimming days
over forever.
Ushering in Autumn
by Glen Sorestad
This morning I donned a long-sleeved shirt and a fleece jacket to set off on my morning walk because, although we
have just passed mid-August, nights are cooling and already the edge of autumn rasps our consciousness that one
day soon the forecast will shock us with that troublesome phrase, a risk of frost. When that happens, the official
starter’s pistol for harvest season is fired off. Summer is abruptly shunted to the back seat and the long-houred
vigor of reaping what has been sown assumes precedence – we are all growers, farmers, deep in our cores. The
brisk morning wind unstoppers my nose and sends my eyes on full leakage. I lengthen my pace, hurry past a scatter
of Lesser Yellow-legs, dipping and darting, completely ignoring me, as they wade and forage in the shallows of the
marsh where the green reeds of summer are yellowing, even now, to the drab skeletons of coming cold.
20
A Vibrant Soul
Irteqa Khan
21
Cubical Spaces
by Amanda Derksen
Grey suits
with a spot of yellow
held in white
trapped
Filing cabinets of messages,
orientations and obligations
from my neighbour
Molly
A locomotive through the brain
Padded walls without
padding
No compulsion
to stay
She brightens the day
white to iridescent
reflecting sun on
glassed water planes
The bliss of
grey suits
with a spot of yellow
Drowning in a sea of
unhealthy sanitation
Small World
Tomika Daum
Still Life Cones and Boxes
Asia Daum
Breakfast
by Rose Willow
With you…
Kelloggs bran flakes, sometimes
Quaker oatmeal, sprinkled with
psyllium husk and flax meal,
topped with blueberries and banana.
Table cleared for coffee,
cribbage, sometimes Skip-Bo.
Without you…
Quaker oatmeal, sometimes
Kelloggs bran flakes, sprinkled with
flax meal, topped with banana.
22
Table cluttered for ginger tea,
solitaire, cry to fill the empty.
Flyway
by Shelley Banks
On this white morning, robins cry and my phone vibrates
a message on my mother’s failing heart.
I call her and we talk about the birds, how Sandhill Cranes glide
over on their migratory flyway north of the Great Plains,
how my lilacs all are bare, except for mating finches,
and at my feeder, one ghost-crowned sparrow whistles,
all bright with blurred black stripes,
the way the sky looks when your eyes are full of tears.
My mother tells me that she wants to fly —
she always knew she could, jumping from the barn,
arms outstretched against the wind,
each time there was a moment when she soared.
Outside, a robin lifts its head to listen to dry dirt,
then opens wide its wings, and rises.
23
Exquisite Solitude
by Sydney Gobeil
Without buildings to
obstruct the sunrise it is
truly clear why this
is the land of living skies
for nature herself
has painted a masterpiece
strikingly vivid
yet again this autumn night
silhouetting the
desolate and weathered house
aged paint curling off
the edges of rotting wood
a former homestead
long ago abandoned by
residents unknown
no longer standing as tall
but isolated
in its own peaceful silence
surrounded by fields
of golden wheat and blue flax
unaltered while the
rest of the world continues
to change and evolve
stoic and unyielding
while blackbirds circle
the expansive sky above
and wind skirts through the
overgrown blades of grass
the world appears to
come to a halt, demanding
that someone stop and
appreciate the beauty
Outlier
Allan Neilsen
Writers are visualizers, educators, weavers, dreamers,
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a voice and a way of expression unlike any other.
Join us. There’s a place here for you.
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Writers’ Guild
(306) 791-7740
[email protected]
www.skwriter.com
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Holy Saturday
by Sally Ito
The sky is uncertain, clouding over one minute,
letting the sun shine the next. Its inability to choose
is a metaphor for my own lax state of belief.
Indifference is what crucified Him,
I tell my only son, while paring an apple.
What? He says. What’s indifference?
Never mind, I reply. The light through the window
has an unsettled look, and the wind is picking up,
shaking the branches of the elm. The dog raises
its head, and hears something only it can hear.
I slice the apple into quarters and give a piece to my son.
In the kitchen, a lump of dough rises
in the bread pan.
Evening Ride
Anthony Schellenberg
Trees
Amanda Derksen
Dreaming
by Vernie Reifferscheid
Wondering, thinking and hoping
dreaming all day long
What a life this could be!
a garden of dill and peas
potatoes and tomatoes, too
cucumbers for dilly pickles
creamed peas with some carrots
baked potatoes and stew tomatoes
laying around in the sun
money coming off the money tree
whatever you want, you can have
and asking for many more things
Sunset Kit
Cassandra Ovans
26
Tulip Reverie
Tiffany Banow
But this is only a dream—“A DREAM”
it’s a dream that can’t never be!
it’s like seeing a movie and when it’s over
it’s only memories in the mind that’s left
for Dreaming and Dreaming, all day and night.
27
The Monster I Know
by Alexis Abello
Untitled
Linda Pâté
Horizon
Sadie Perkins
28
Untitled
Gurleen Lehal
It wasn’t the amount of blood that shocked me, but the
high wail of the police car’s sirens that pierced my ears.
I ran. I ran as fast as my legs could, my breath heavy. I
ran right into her house, into her room, slamming the
door behind me.
She gasped as I entered. She wasn’t expecting me.
I wasn’t completely expecting myself to go there either.
But where else was I to go. I had to go. If I didn’t they’d
blame me. I didn’t do it.
I start to pace the room, muttering to myself. I
can’t tell you what I muttered but I’m interrupted by
the falling to the floor in panic, in desolation? I fall and
hard, awoken by a cold rush of wind. Startled, I jump to
my senses. Racheal sits by the window, laughing.
How can she laugh at a time like this?
Does she not see it? She mustn’t.
I lunge at her, angry. She halts me with a single
gasp. I don’t want her to see this side of me. She says I
don’t need to be alone, she is here for me. The pitying
tone of one who doesn’t know what else to do. I
decide to trust her against that which my body tells me
not to.
I begin from the beginning of all that has
happened at the house. The fact that the very words
she just spoke to me were the very last to be uttered
from Mother last night. I remember screaming that
she ought to do better than that if she wished to be my
mother.
I’ll admit I’m deeply troubled. But not this
troubled. I can’t be this bad. This isn’t bad, I’ve hit
the point of evil. My heart is rotten to the core, as if
a bruised apple chucked off a building has taken its
place.
I stand beside Racheal, and look into the mirror.
All I see is a man, covered in sweat and blood and an
oversized suit.
Okay, I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I should
explain. I didn’t kill her. But I know who did.
A man. Let’s call him Mr. X. He doesn’t deserve
to be a mister, let alone have a name, but for your
sake I will call him that. He was a monster of a man, a
man who needed his way to be done, and no others.
If something didn’t go his way, whether at work or at
home he’d come back. He’d drink. He’d watch Wheel of
Fortune. And then if as though a switch has been hit, a
different man appears.
A man rampaging, screaming, a man I never
wanted to be. A man like my father was. This is the
man that killed my mother. My body wanted to fight,
it wanted to protect. But I couldn’t move. The mushy,
bruised apple was officially past its prime. It was
trapped in a body of a coward, fearful of what his life
was becoming.
The part that kills me is this man was now staring
back at me from within the mirror. I could’ve sworn I
saw a slight smirk upon his face.
The Calling
by Jordan Bosch
What compelled the girl to venture out into the cold
night, she couldn’t tell you. She would say later in life
that something was calling her, but even that may be
incorrect as to her feelings. All she knew was that on
that bleak January night, the night before she was to
leave this home forever, she crept out of bed at the
midnight hour, put on her boots and her jacket over
her dressing gown, and went out the door.
It took some time for the crisp wind to bite at
her ears and face, and she didn’t mind it much then.
She had spent most of the last two days indoors so the
coolness thrilled her senses and made her feel alive. It
wasn’t long before she reached the end of the block,
the last street lamp blazing behind her. Beyond it lay
a great forest, one that had stood all her childhood
and would no doubt stand through many childhoods
to come. It was old and mysterious and full of stories.
She had heard such stories from her earliest schooldays that it had been a very spiritual place, as well as
hunting grounds for the Apaches who used to dwell
there. Some of their medicine men and warriors were
rumoured to haunt the forest, particularly around
Thanksgiving. Bearing this in mind yet still moved
by some unknown whim that swayed her fear, she
ventured off the civilized road and into the dark
shrouds of the trees.
The woods were unusually quiet as the girl made
her way through them. There was no beaten path so
she found herself ducking under branches and stepping
over emerging roots. After about a half hour she
became sensitive of a warm glow ahead of her, from a
clearing just ahead. Compelled, she continued on until
she reached its mysterious source.
Standing in the clearing was a marvellous great
oak tree, huge in size and scope. Its great branches
nestled with the others of the forest, almost blocking
off the night sky and leaving its height a mystery. But in
width, eight people couldn’t have reached all the way
around its trunk.
Swarming about it were strange creatures that
emanated an even stranger radiance. They were
much too big and their glow too incredible to be mere
fireflies. Whatever these sprites were, they meandered
towards it, as did the girl attracted by the light. She
walked the whole circumference of the great oak,
attempting at times to get a closer look at the sprites,
but their glow was too much and she could only make
them out as balls of light. Their light seemed to also
29
radiate heat, as the coldness of the night was no longer
apparent to her feeling. The tree itself as she felt it
was not sticky as with sap, or coarse in any way. It felt
smooth, healthy, and comfortable. After maybe ten
minutes of walking around it and taking in the wonder
of the scene, she nestled down at the tree’s base and
rested her head against a nook.
As she lay there, an even more unusual
phenomenon took place. She saw what looked to be
spectres, wildlife roaming in the light of the sprites
in front of her. So surely as these deer and bears
and others appeared, they were succeeded by men
in moccasins and hides sitting around a fire, as the
oldest in their party (looking as old as the oak itself)
captivated them with a story. She found she could hear
the voices if she listened closely enough, but only as
an echo of sorts. She took away the gist of the tale,
if missing a few details, but felt warm in her heart
nonetheless. As these apparitions vanished she saw
men in red uniforms darting between the trees on the
outskirts of the glow as if being pursued, or pursuing.
A moment later, labourers appeared brandishing
saws and axes but leaving the great oak alone. She
saw dignified scholars, scientists, soldiers, children.
Whatever it was that was showing her these scenes
stayed with the children for some time. All the while,
she felt herself nodding off to this spectral lullaby of
history. The sprite lights were dimming too, and the
last she remembered was seeing young men and
women with long hair and colourful clothes standing
near the oak, hand in hand. Were they singing? Or
engaged in a ritual? The echo was so faint now she
couldn’t make it out at all. The man they were facing
certainly wasn’t impressed, standing in front of some
large machine and pointing to a piece of paper he held
in his hand. And then she drifted off.
Some hours later the girl awoke. The light of dawn
was beginning to stream in through the clouds. She felt
colder than the night before, the warmth of the sprites
having subsided and given way to the bleak January
chill. As she sat up, she felt a slight breeze on her back
and turned to discover a half metre of trunk where the
great oak had stood. There were no sprites, even the
clearing seemed smaller than the night before. And
no ghostly visions were playing out. Confused, she got
up and turned to look at the stump. She remembered
learning in school that the rings of a tree can tell you its
age. In its life, this had been an exceptionally old tree.
She didn’t have much time to consider this,
though. She knew in a few hours her parents would
be waking early, it being a moving day, after all. She
decided to walk back home and not worry them.
Before entering the brush she took one last look at the
clearing.
“Somebody should plant another oak here,” she
thought. “It looks so naked without.”
30
The Cue
by Miriam Clavir
Talking with the other girls, all I dreamed about was
hot sex, celebrities, beauty and true love. But I was
pretending. Twelve-year-old me knew hot sex for a
village girl could be had under the bridge, and, that it
guaranteed celebrity. I had no talent for what passed
as beauty, and fancy make-up wasn’t sold in Godfrey
anyway. True love I already had from my dog. When I
got my period, late, my Mom gave me her old books,
from Jane Austen to Lady Chatterley’s Lover. She
was the third-grade teacher and insisted I read first,
then talk. “And the books explain everything,” she
said. “Especially, Rosemarie, to think about right and
wrong.” But what I learned most from them was my
desperation to play billiards.
Nice girls didn’t go to the pool hall in town.
Besides, the older I got, the more I knew it was billiards
I hungered to play: Mansfield Park, not the movie The
Hustler. Okay, men’s games, but at least with Austen,
a gentleman’s game. At the library I learned the
difference between English billiards and snooker, and
decided I would try snooker as soon as I got my first job
and could move out. Snooker has twenty-two balls, not
just three, in bright, old-fashioned, solid colours. That
day my path was decided; I would become a librarian,
live among books, and after work play snooker.
Between library school and part-time work I
had no time to indulge my passion but I knew I’d
made the right choices. Libraries can be weird, too, it
wasn’t just me with my girlish secret. Where else, in
the space of two short shelves, can a person dive into
“Canadian Plastics, Canadian Poetry, Canadian Police
Chief, Canadian Pro Rodeo News, Canadian Property
Valuation, Canadian Psychology.” Librarians were
always leafing intently through these handy magazines
as well as snatching the latest books before they were
on the shelves.
My first real job was at a library in Saskatoon.
Within weeks I’d walked past a pool hall between my
apartment and work, a big one with a dozen green
baize-covered pool tables and two of the larger,
regulation-sized ones for snooker. I’d done my research.
The next Saturday afternoon, pretending not to peer
through the darkened windows, I saw only three pool
tables in use, both snooker tables empty, and a young
woman at the hall’s big cue and food service counter.
Breathing deeply, I walked in.
She knew she hadn’t seen me before and
judiciously chose the right length cue. I paid for the
first hour of play, ordered a beer like the other players
I’d seen through the window, and took my pail of balls,
all the reds and the single pink, green, yellow, blue,
brown, black and white, over to the farthest snooker
table. The set-up triangle and the chalk were there. I’d
done my research, I could look casual. On the first shot
I broke the red balls beautifully.
I thrilled myself for an hour, then two. I
never ripped into the cloth tabletop. The right ball
occasionally went into the right pocket, but each crisp,
clean hit sounded like a trumpet call from Paradise.
Every week after, depending on my schedule as the
newest librarian, I’d return to the pool hall, even
ordering a hot dog or a Reuben for supper like the pool
players, with two beer.
Only months into this cool sweetness, more balls
flying into the right pockets, I was challenged. Maybe
he was just being friendly, but a man playing pool left
his buddies two tables away and came over to ask if
I wanted a game, saying he noticed I always played
alone. And I recognized him.
He was one of the many guys—Aboriginal,
non-Aboriginal, old, young—who spent time in the
comfortable chairs in the library sleeping more than
reading. But it’s a public facility, after all; immigrants
in the English-as-a-second-language school down the
road do their homework in the library so the school
doesn’t have to rent a large space. The students,
though, are sitting in groups now at the bigger tables,
not the chairs or individual carrels. They kept getting
their knapsacks and new parkas stolen despite bright
red library notices announcing, “Do not leave your
belongings unattended.” For someone learning English,
I thought just two words might work better: “Thieves
here.” My tired boss said, “Books get re-shelved. What
are you supposed to leave so somebody doesn’t come
and sit in your place?”
Now my billiards world was being occupied by
someone else. But after all these months, I figured on
being up to the challenge.
He said his name was Joe. Thin, plaid shirt and
jeans, he was probably in his early twenties, maybe
three, four years younger than me, and he knew
snooker. The game was fast and bold, and a few of
my shots, not just his, were brilliant. Thrilling! In the
end he won, and we were quick to set up a second
game, his buddies at their pool table glancing over and
laughing.
Game two went more slowly. The shots were
difficult. Often I had to use the long-handled rack for its
stable balance under my cue while I tried a long shot
down the table. Even so, I was delighted with my play
until I landed in double jeopardy. The ball I needed to
hit in the correct order was hidden by another, and I’d
lose too many points if the wrong ball got sunk. I was
“snookered”. I was figuring out my shot when, turning
sideways to grab a tissue and sneeze, I saw Joe rifling
through my purse.
In this pool hall players leave coats and bags on
one of the spare stools by their table, or hung on hooks
on the pillars. Joe had his right hand plumbing my
opened purse.
“You...!” and the librarian kicked in. “I’m calling
Security.”
Laughter echoed from another table. Joe
shrugged and his grin almost said he was proud I’d
been quick enough to catch him.
“So you don’t just use the library to sleep in, like
the other homeless guys,” I said.
He withdrew his hand. “I’m not homeless.” He
was no longer smiling. “It’s just, there’re eight people
at home and I work nights. Maintenance. Daytimes I
need quiet. You work at the library. You’d understand.”
He slowly held up two hands, open and empty, and
then folded his arms across his chest.
I was snookered again. What on earth’s my next
move, especially since I’m winning my first game
and admittedly out-of-my-mind to keep playing? My
Canadian Psychology or maybe it was my Canadian
Police Chief voice said, “So, now that I know, what
do you think I’m supposed to do if I see you at the
library?”
“Ban me from Newspapers and Magazines?”
“You’d just go to a different floor.”
His grin was back. He shrugged again. He picked
up his cue, finished my shot, and made it.
I drank a long mouthful of beer, for time. Joe’s
buddies over at their table were standing straight,
chalking their cues so they could stare at us, but
nothing in their body language showed tension. Their
open acceptance and enjoyment of the scene made me
remember that it was Jane Austen who had brought
me into this beery pool hall, the “nice girl” from a
middle-enough class family, not someone living out
harder circumstances. The men knew I was a librarian.
I knew more; I was the kind who always signed out her
books even if they’d been intercepted before reaching
the public shelves.
Maybe Joe’s stealing from my purse was bravado
in front of his buddies. Maybe it was deeper, like an
uncontrollable addiction, or instead a small revenge at
library authority, at a whole system that exercised its
control over the comfortable chairs. Or maybe Joe was
just a normal, habitual thief.
I stared down at the snooker table. My right hand
started rolling the balls into the nearest pockets.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” Joe’s voice was
genuinely puzzled. “You’re winning.”
I reached under the table, grabbed the triangle
off its hook, carefully lined it up on the baize and began
filling it according to the rules with all the red balls. I
lifted my head to look at Joe directly. His face showed
a weary acceptance as he turned to walk back to his
buddies.
“Hey, Joe,” I said, cocking my head. “I can’t just
leave this table. Time for a new game.”
31
Tossing Rocks
by Sadie Perkins
“Jason, Dad said not to do that.”
“So? Dad doesn’t know shit.” Jason was 12. The
novelty of cursing a parent was new and still exciting.
Andrew chewed his lip, watching as his brother threw
another rock into the dugout. It landed with a wet
plop.
“You’re not ‘spose to swear.” Another plop.
“And you’re not supposed to bother me. Go
away.” Andrew was 10, the age where little boys like to
follow around their older brothers and watch as they
disobey the rules.
“Dad said… dad said you’ll scare the fish.” Jason
knelt, his rubber boots sinking down into the squishy
mud as he picked up another rock from the little pile
beside him, his fingers grimy. He picked up a handful of
the foul smelling mud, too.
“There aren’t fish in here.” He threw the mud at
Andrew, the black soaked soil splattering over his shirt.
Andrew covered his face with his hands to shield his
eyes before clenching his pudgy fists.
“Yeah there is. Dad said he saw them. Big ones.”
Well, Dad’s crazy.
“No fish in here. No brains in your head.” Jason
said. He threw the little rock in his hand, watching the
tiny dot sail high into the air, arcing back down before it
dropped into the center of the big old dugout. Plop.
There really was no reason for him to throw rocks.
From the sound they made when the hit the surface,
the water was deep. Deep enough Jason had taken the
little aluminum boat once to float in the middle with
a string on a stick and pretend to fish. He had floated
for some time, looking over the edge of the boat and
peering into the dark and murky water. Dark enough
that if something had been looking back up at him, its
face just beneath the surface, he wouldn’t have been
able to see it. Jason had paddled back to the side very
quickly after thinking that, and had not floated since.
“I got brains.” Andrew said quietly. Fat tears
gathered at the corners of his eyes and slid down his
cheeks.
“As many as Dad does.” Jason spoke under his
breath, ignoring the tears of his brother. Dad wasn’t
right in the head. No fish in this water, it smelled so
bad. No brains in Dad’s head, all gone after he’d damn
near drowned in this dugout. All he did was sit there
and babble about not scaring the fish. Screw him. Jason
cursed his father in his head, before he remembered
the only other person around was Andrew.
“Screw him.” Jason said out loud. It felt good to
curse his father, probably sitting up there in the old
farmhouse staring at the wall. Jason looked around
for more rocks. There was a big one, the size of a
softball, sitting just past the bank and almost touching
32
the water. It would make a grand splash if he hucked
it right in the middle, if he threw hard enough. His
boots squelched in the mud, wet slopping noises as the
ground tried to keep him in place. It clung to him, his
forehead wrinkling with effort as he squished closer to
the rock.
“Dad’s got brains.” Andrew said, watching his
brother move closer to the water. “Mom says, Jason.
Dad’s just sick.”
“No brains.” Jason said absentmindedly, reaching
to dig his fingers down into the mud and wrap around
the rock. The water was less than an inch from his
boot.
“Jason, Dad said not… not never go in the water.
Not never.” Andrew’s lip was wobbling, big crocodile
tears standing in his eyes. “Jason, I’m gonna tell on
you.”
“Go ahead.” It was bigger than it looked above the
mud. Jason’s fingers dug down, slid through gunk, old
reeds and stinking mud, down and down, sliding along
the hard surface of the rock. Jason bent at an awkward
angle, leaning over the water with his boots sinking in,
trying to pry the rock free. It wouldn’t come.
If he stepped into the water and came from the
other way, he could rock it back and forth and pull it
free. He looked at the water lapping against the shore
for a long time. It looked peaceful, almost friendly,
gentle and soft.
“Jason…”
“Shut up.”
Jason stepped into the water, and sank. His heart
leapt into his throat as his boot kept going down,
down… until it settled on mud and he was steady. It
was barely 6 inches deep. Jason laughed, pulling his
other boot free with a wet slop and stepping fully
around, the water surrounding his boots up to midway.
He once more bent and felt for the rock, grunting softly
as his fingers pulled. It was coming, he could feel it
sliding up through the mud. It kept coming, what a
splash this would make, scare the daylights of every
fish that didn’t exist in this water. Show his dad.
The hand that rose up out of the swampy dugout
wrapped around Jason’s ankle and just held for a
moment. It was so still that Andrew didn’t see it, until
the hand began to pull. Jason turned slowly and saw
the hand, a moment of dumb stillness before he began
to panic.
“ANDREW! GO GET DAD! ANDREW!” The
boy screamed, his voice rising in pitch as the thing
continued to pull. It was webbed, a dark sickly green
mottled with brown, and it pulled slowly, steadily. It
was not rushed. Jason’s other boot, sunk deep into the
mud, refused to budge as his leg was pulled down into
the water. It poured over the edge of his boot, warm
and disgusting against his sock, the strain on his other
ankle painful. It pulled and pulled, until the boot still
stuck in the mud gave way with a sickly pop and Jason
flew backwards. He hit the water with a splash like his
rocks made, messier and not so neat of a plop.
“ANDREWANDREWAN-” The water covered
Jason’s face, his arms flailing above his head and
sending dirty water spraying across the surface before
both arms went stiff and relaxed, sinking down until
there was nothing left on the water but ripples. His
fingertips were last to disappear. Andrew began to suck
his thumb, little heart and little brain unable to process
what he had seen. He could not turn away when what
the hand had been attached to rose up out of the
dugout, its feet slopping like rubber boots across the
mud coming towards him. He hadn’t thrown rocks, he
was okay. He was a good boy, he listened to what dad
said. Don’t you throw rocks, Andrew. The fish don’t like
it.
The police stayed for a long time around the
house, lounging inside kitchen like they had been
invited. The boy’s mother was still crying beside her
husband. Her hysterics had subsided some.
The police outside were dragging the bottom of
the dugout for Jason. Andrew had been found by his
mother, his throat stuffed to bulging with rocks, his
cheeks full like a chipmunk’s were, almost grotesquely
comical. He was soaking wet and his lungs were full of
dugout water.
The boy’s father gently rubbed his wife’s back, a
weak attempt to console her, leaning his head against
hers and sighing sadly, his voice soft.
“You don’t throw rocks, boys… the fish don’t like
it.”
Sister Aphrodita (Day One)
By Br. Kurt Van Kuren
Leilani
Leilani needed a new house lamp for the guest the Blue
Dolphin King had told her about, the troubled brilliant
one recently dead. “There must always be a light in
her darkness,” he said. “This is your duty, Leilani.”
He slapped his tail in the water to make his point.
Obedient to the god, Leilani went out immediately
to the north beach where the glow-crabs lived and
proceeded to trap one.
She walked lightly along the shore, her short toes
dipping in the water just long enough for a glow-crab
to catch a taste of her life-force. Soon enough, an
aquamarine light emerged from its hiding place in the
low tide, scuttling sideways to reach the flavor.
Leilani let her right big toe drag in the thin surf, so
that the glow-crab would not have to leave the water
to catch her. A tiny piercing pain stabbed through as
the glow-crab got its pincers dug in and began to feed.
She felt a sudden touch of tiredness as some of
her life-force flowed out of her and into the glow-crab’s
little body. She lifted up her right foot and quickly
putting her gourd in position, deposited the intoxicated
creature.
She knelt down and putting the gourd next to
her child’s face, peeked through the pin-holes she
had made. Sure enough, the glow-crab was already
in the midst of its transformation. Uncertainly at first,
then with more clarity, the glow-crab travelled up the
path of huna faster than the laws of Kanehunamoku
normally allowed, a gift given her by the Blue Dolphin
King.
A tiny replica of Leilani’s face now sat on the body
of a butterfly, with transparent wings of sheerest blue.
Large eyes--much larger by comparison to Leilani’s face
than her own--looked back at the human girl, imploring
answers.
“What has happened? Where am I? What am I?”
it asked in pure thought.
“Be at peace, Little Light. I am Leilani, your
Mother/Creator. You will be happy and free soon.”
“Little Light loves Leilani,” its simple mind
responded. To show its love, it began to glow to its
fullest, a legacy from its life as a glow-crab. Lances of
radiance sprang out, illuminating the beach, still in
early dawn.
Leilani felt a change in the wind from the sea.
She looked up to the south-west where soft lights of
pale green played over the tops of the mountains of
Kanehunamoku. The shoreline around her began to
change shape, becoming the north-west tip of Maui
even while she watched.
Leilani ran to the place, holding her gourd high,
the light of the tiny creature within it illuminating
her footsteps in contrast to the sand. Upon reaching
the person, Leilani saw a haoli, a white woman, of
early middle age, naked and convulsing on the shore.
Her hair was blonde with brown roots, her face pale
and puffy, dark circles of blue blood under her eyes.
She thrashed about, bring the unwanted attention of
several glow-crabs, who began to delicately sidle their
way over to her prone form.
Leilani tried to carefully insinuate her thoughts
into this woman’s thoughts, but the pull of her haoli
mind was greater even than the rip tide. Leilani’s
stomach fought back against a feeling of vertigo. Then
as if a mighty hand reached out from the woman’s
abdomen, Leilani felt her life-force gripped and
contained by the evil images of the haoli woman.
“Help me! I cannot hold her! she cried out to
the Blue Dolphin King. “Her mind is slipping into the
currents of the evil Mo’o! Soon her body will follow!”
At once the nightmare of finned automobiles,
33
masks and machines, all in the dead of night, became
a dream of snorkeling in the Reef with blue spinner
dolphins. The woman heaved a sigh and was still.
“This haoli is stronger than all the other six wahini
combined,” Leilani answered.
“Yes. Many challenges and opportunities await
you.” The Blue Dolphin King said, his voice mixed with
the surf.
“Could this be the one to set me free?”
“She must be. I created the Training Place for
Hawaiians, not haoli. If you fail, or she fails, I will
unmake this place, and leave you both in the open
water as food for the Mo’o.”
Marilyn
Marilyn awoke on the beach in early dawn, to the
sound of a young girl singing softly in Hawaiian. She
lifted her head just enough to make out a tall slender
form wrapped in a sarong, walking towards her with
floating grace, holding some sort of lantern ahead of
her. Then the throb of her morning headache began.
“Oh god, I’ll never mix Mandrax and lemon gin again,”
she moaned.
“I do not know this Mandrax person, but I have
heard of lemon gin. Is Mandrax a god?” the girl said
in lilting English, or at least Marilyn thought it was
English.
“You might say that.” Marilyn replied.
“I serve the Blue Dolphin King,” the girl answered.
“He is the god of this place.”
Marilyn pushed the dirty bangs out of her eyes to
get a better glimpse. Such a pretty child, no more than
twelve, and already much taller than the aging actress.
“And where is this place? I’m assuming we’re on Zuma
beach, because I can’t see any houses. This can’t be
Malibu.”
“I do not know this Zuma or Malibu,” Leilani
replied. “We are in the Training Place, which the Blue
Dolphin King has created within Kanehunamoku for the
lost ones to find themselves. I am to conduct you to
the Great House of Souls.”
Marilyn decided to play along with this fantasy.
“That’s great,” she replied. “But sweety, I told my agent
that I wasn’t ever going to do any science-fiction. I
mean I like George Pal—you know, the fellow who
made ‘War of the Worlds’---but that Walt Disney is just
a dirty old man. And I’m never going to take second
place to a special effect. I’m a star, you know.”
The girl rubbed her forehead in response. “I do
not know these haoli men you speak of,” she said. She
stood silent for a moment, with her right ear cocked to
the boom of the surf. “The Blue Dolphin King says it is
time to show you your new home.”
“Who in the world are you talking too?” Marilyn
34
asked, slowly and unsteadily getting to her feet.
“I am speaking to the Blue Dolphin King. Can you
not hear him?” Leilani replied.
“Great. Either I’m hallucinating this, or I’m
actually stark naked on the beach with a little girl who
hears voices. What else could happen?” she rambled.
Marilyn lept up. “Okay, so let’s find out if this all
just a dream,” she said, shivering a little as the wind
off the ocean picked up. “I need something to wear.
Something nice.”
The image in Marilyn’s mind shone with clear
light. This would be easy for Leilani. “You shall have
exactly what you wish,” she said quietly. Leilani twirled
around and produced a three-quarter-length red silk
kimono. She finished with a small curtsy. “For you to
wear.”
Marilyn gasped. Leilani was offering her not just
any kimono, but the black-on-red silk reproduction of
Hokusai’s masterpiece “Dawn on Mount Fuji.” She had
seen it in a boutique on Rodeo Drive just this week, but
was too coy to tell the salesgirl that she couldn’t afford
it right now. But here it was.
“Oh, it’s so beautiful,” Marilyn whispered. She
allowed Leilani to help her put it on, one arm at a time,
the silk against her bare arms and back nearly erotic in
its intensity. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name,”
Marilyn said.
“I am called Leilani,” the young girl replied as she
tied a cream-white embroidered sash around Marilyn’s
tiny waist.
“Pleased to meet you, Leilani,” Marilyn said,
twisting her torso and shaking her arms to see if the
kimono fit. “I’m Marilyn Monroe. Perhaps you’ve heard
of me.”
“I am sorry, but I do not know that name,” Leilani
answered shyly.
“I understand. You were born in what, 1950?
1951? And out here on Maui, you probably didn’t get
to many of my movies.”
“It is not that, Marilyn. It is because I died in 1888.
On Earth it is 1962.”
“And I was just starting to like you,” Marilyn
pouted. “But since this is just a dream--this kimono
proves that--I’m in the mood for a little silliness. So
perhaps you’d like to expand on that last point.”
Leilani, remembering the dire consequences of
failure for both of them, decided to take the plunge.
“You died last night. Evil men conspired together,
and took your life. You were made to appear as weak,
and mad. A suicide.”
“So that’s it? I’m dead, and this is the afterlife?”
“Yes,” Leilani said after some hesitation. “This is
not a dream.”
Story continued at: http://archiveofourown.org/
works/4748636/chapters/10854653
Wither
by Kanna Jorde
Everything about you is how I’d want to be. You flit
about, the social butterfly that you are, from clique
to clique, sipping only the nectar you wish from each
human flower you encounter. From the Roses, who
despite their prickly insides, accept you without
question, to the Dandelions, those class clowns who
find you amusing enough to acknowledge. You can
even make the Clematis, that seemingly exclusive
group of brains, laugh and chatter eagerly. You’re so...
free, and I can’t help but want that for myself.
Do you see me? I think you do, but our motley
crew of dyed-dark fellows doesn’t have anything you
need, at least not yet. I console myself that we are the
only set yet, the Ink Roses, which has not been brushed
by your feather-soft wings, and that such an encounter
is inevitable.
The time passes. You grow more radiant by the
day, now closer to a flower in full bloom than the
unfurling bud you had been. I grow, thinner, my rose
of ink now withered. Maybe my nectar’s tainted.
You stopped once, fleetingly, but you didn’t look at
me. I know you saw me. Otherwise, how could you
so thoroughly avoid my gaze? It’s no use, I think. My
passion grows regardless.
I watch from behind the wall as you shine, radiant
like the moon, reflecting and refracting the light
from their attentions like a prism. You are the white,
reflecting all colours, and I the void that absorbs them.
You take others and magnify their beauty, impervious
to their praise. Your head is unswollen, humble
defined.
You are outwardly ideal, but neither has your
mind atrophied. Year after year, a plethora of papers
praise your perfection. I can’t help but want the peace
that must be your mind.
…
Something’s wrong. You walk in, shoulders back
and head held high as usual, but… No. Something’s
off. I hold my tongue, though, even as my stomach
churns at the thought of you being harmed. It’s not my
place. Even if I noticed before your various friends and
admirers did. You don’t want me; I won’t bother you.
…
I try to persuade myself of the truth of this, but
I cannot. Instead, my candle burns brighter (like the
lighter over my scarred fingers) and my thoughts
simmer with the notion that I might be more worthy of
your attention, and you are merely misguided. I could
change that. I could show you…
And so the spiral winds on.
…
You’re a magician on stage, slipping through
expressions, characters, mindsets with ease. Is this
it? Is this your truth? I wonder, but perhaps I am
merely projecting. You bow, exquisite, to the crowd
of which I am front and centre. I do not, can not, rise
with the crowd as they applaud you. I am spellbound,
entranced, breathless.
Having caught a glimpse, I search for the key. I
think I am close but my fingers slip, as they are bound
to do, and I lose what little grip I had. Like the climbing
wall I fall from you grow ever distant, and though I
thrash in pain and desire you only gaze past, impassive.
Your notebook holds no secrets; your mind hides
them all. I try to gain some insight from your locker in
the hall. Do you notice when I do? It starts with your
pen, the one you chew in math. Standing by my locker
two down from yours, I cannot tear my eyes off your
fingers twirling the lock to and fro: my stomach twists
with them.
Sometimes I think I’m too obvious in my
attentions. Sometimes our eyes meet, my dull black
with your clear blue, but you’re quick to snap them
away, as if mere eye contact could somehow taint you.
It’s okay. I touch the pen in my baggy jeans pocket and
smile.
Still, though, some days I agonize. What’s wrong
with me? What is it you find so distasteful? Or is it
obvious, I the only one who has yet to know?
You are so sunny, but you dance in the rain as
though no one can see you. I do not disturb - to shatter
such a moment is blasphemy. The crack in the heavens
is rent wide, and even my haven behind the tree is
infringed upon. I see you. I see your blissful smile,
that beatific grin, and something similar stretches
mine. Soon stretched beyond capacity, unused to such
contortions, my lips crack and bleed. Tongue glossing
over the cut (like my finger over my scarred thighs), the
metallic tang stirs me.
…
I see you, playing the flute so prim and proper in
class, but I know you only come alive over your guitar,
tossing your hair back and shredding your strings. Class
does nothing but restrict you, you need freedom. I can
give you that. Your flute is methodical; your guitar is
chaos. I sit quiet, and pluck my bass to your rhythm. I
know I will see you later, when you are in your room
upstairs and I am across the street, lounging on the
park bench with binoculars in my hand.
Maybe I missed something. I try again. Capable is
a good word for you, I think as you round another aisle.
But it fails to capture all that you are. You contemplate
a plum, and metaphors flicker through my mind: your
skin, tight and smooth, and the sweet flesh beneath.
How easily it parts beneath a knife.
…
Growth. Photosynthesis, my rose feeding from
your indirect sunlight. My heart twists, feelings
scorned, lacking light.
35
I need you, I want you, unbearably so.
…
“Please, Father, save me!” you cry. I am
disappointed. I had thought you above that sort of
thing.
…
“Beautiful, so beautiful,” I whisper to your reddyed hair. You no longer avoid my gaze; your bright
eyes stare straight up at mine. Skin so pale, so cold, you
are frozen. A queen of ice.
But as I cradle your head in my arms, I slowly
realize: there’s something missing. Your eyes are bright,
but there is something clouded, something deeply
wrong in their depths. I can’t find it. Then I look over
at your body, lying a few feet away, and I observe how
utterly ordinary it is, heaped haphazardly and curled
in on itself. Even the flash of skin at the waist fails
to rouse me, despite how it used to make my blood
writhe. I am triumphant: the source of your beauty,
your passion, rests in my arms.
But even as I gaze fondly down at you, I feel
a chill. Your eyes haven’t moved, your face hasn’t
changed, you aren’t smiling, and there is something
so profoundly wrong in that that I break. I cannot
help myself. Where’s your smile, where’s your laugh,
where’s that little head movement when you toss
your hair back to poke fun at the Roses? Where is it?
I shift my grip and try to make you do that head toss,
but it fails. I cradle your face in my palms, hands only
trembling slightly, as I bring your face close to mine.
Futile… I know, but I can’t help but try. Now, now that
it’s gone, only now do I realize what I could have had.
I gently press my lips to yours, feeling the dried blood
crackle under the pressure, but your lips are still so
soft. A tear breaks free from my slowly filling eyes. Like
a drop of water on cracked paint, a trickle of blood
moistens, and slowly falls. The rose, withered beyond
repair, curls in on itself.
Magnolias by the Apartment Gate
by Vijay Kachru
On the sunny morning of August 15th, 1974, and three
days after the Toronto Transit Union strike began,
Sukhi Gupta decided to go to the York University’s
international student offices to type up her resume.
After her husband, Murli, left for work, she washed
the breakfast dishes, made their bed and tidied up the
bathroom. At 10 a.m. she was sitting on a faded yellow
velvet chair at their dining table and her one- page
handwritten resume lay flat in front of her on the table.
She read her name out loud--testing the word and
36
sound, ‘Mrs. Sukhi Gupta.’ She decided that the prefix
Mrs. was unnecessary. She crossed it out.
Under the ‘Education’ heading she crossed out
the primary and middle school stuff and kept the lone
Bachelor of Arts from Delhi University. As suggested by
her employment councillor at the immigration services,
she added typing, embroidery, sewing and cooking as
additional skills, and crossed out laundry and housecleaning. She had never used a vacuum cleaner or
washing machine prior to Canada. In the six months
she had been in Toronto, using the machines still gave
her jitters.
She pondered the heading- experience. She had
none. She had helped out at the button factory which
her father owned and operated in Delhi, but only for a
few hours a month when he traveled to buy supplies.
So, no experience. She listed her hobbies--reading,
music, and cooking. The one about cooking was
perhaps a stretch, but she was learning. She folded the
handwritten copy of her one-page resume and leaned
sideways and grabbed her hand bag hanging on the
ladder back chair. She placed the folded paper in the
side pocket.She unclasped the brass clutch and pulled
out her wallet and peered in. Five two- dollar bills and
some change. It would be just enough for taxi-fare
back. She would hitch a ride. It was a sunny day and a
busy street in a free country. She stood up. The phone
rang. It was her husband Murli.
‘‘So what is the story today?” he said.
“No soap opera today. I am off to York University.”
“Why?”
“To the student center to type my resume,” Sukhi
said.
“It is at least 12 kilometers, Sukhi. Also, It is not
safe.”
“I will be careful,” Sukhi said.
“If you do take a lift, don’t take it from men.”
“Okay! Okay.”
She dressed in her blue cotton shalwar kamiz with
a light wool cardigan.The sunlit lobby was dazzling. She
felt the heat of the sun. She pulled the satchel scrap
off and took of her blue cardigan. As she adjusted her
shawl over her breasts and then swung the satchel
strap over her head on to her shoulder she saw Dan
Stout, the apartment super, staring and grinning. He
was in his blue mud-stained coveralls. The sweat was
raining down his face as he began to wipe his forehead.
“Hello, Dan,” she said.
“Well. I told you it was going to get warm one day.
Didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“So where are you off to? You know there are no
buses or subway today.”
“I know. I will walk part way and take a lift.”
“Can’t see your husband agreeing to it.”
“Oh! He knows.”
“Look now you got our number, right? Good!
Call us, and Betsy will come get you if you are stuck
somewhere.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Dan held the door open for her as she stepped
out of the building. She liked Dan Stout, but felt unsure
about Betsy. If her husband Dan was around, Betsy
hung on to his arm calling him ‘darling’ and ‘great lover
of mine.’ The one time Dan had offered to drive her
to a grocery store, Betsy had insisted on driving her
instead, so that Dan darling could continue with his
jobs. Murli said that he could never imagine having
a domineering wife like Betsy and that if he ever did,
he would get a quick divorce. He later said that it had
been a joke. But Dan Stout didn’t mind, it seemed. In
the evenings Dan and Betsy sat by the tall rounded
Magnolia trees near the apartment gates and from
Gupta’s balcony one could hear their laughter, soft
and gurgled through the evening. Some evenings they
walked toward the scarlet drive hand in hand, arms
gently swinging.
As she walked toward the gates, Sukhi felt a
sudden burst of joy. She loved looking at the front
garden from her balcony on the 13th floor, but being
close to the fragrances reminded her of the gardens
of Shalimar. They had gone for a short honeymoon
to Kashmir, and Sukhi had screamed and wept with
absolute joy.
Still, this was only the third day of the strike,
and perhaps things would change if it went on for
days and weeks. A group of young school age boys
stood and stared at her with curious looks and made
inaudible comments in her direction. She heard
someone speak. A woman in tweed suit was touching
her shoulder.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes. Fine.”
She looked back toward her apartment building.
Dan was pruning one of several Magnolia bushes facing
the street. He waved with the small pruned branch in
his hand. A petal of the star flower still clung to it. She
waved back. Something about his gesture made her
feel strong again and she looked for the queue to Jane
and Finch Subway. She walked over and stood behind
a school girl in uniform. There were about six people
ahead of her - three women, two men and the school
girl. The women were chatting with one another. The
two men wore suits and straddled their briefcases
while absorbed in their folded newspapers.
A dark blue car stopped in front of Sukhi.
Through the open window Sukhi noticed a white
starched arm gesturing. She moved closer and looked
at the driver. He was dark skinned, possibly Indian, she
thought.
“Which way are you headed?”
“York University.” She replied.
“No problem! I am headed that way,” he said.
He jumped out of the driver’s side and ran over
to the pavement. He unlocked the passenger door, and
held the door open. Sukhi got in. The driver smiled at
her as he put the car in gear.
“Thank you very much.” Sukhi adjusted her
satchel in her lap.
“My name is Peter. You look Indian. Do you speak
Hindi? I speak Guajarati. I am originally from Uganda,
so not the same as India.”
“Sukhi Gupta,” she said.
She answered some of his questions, and they
fell into an easy conversation. They chatted about the
transit strike, winters in Canada and the jobs search.
Peter said that he was a civil servant and worked at the
taxation office downtown.
“Would you mind very much if we stopped at the
Becker’s for two minutes? I need to buy cigarettes. By
the wa—don’t ever start smoking. It is a hard habit to
kick,” he said.
“It is alright,” she said.
Sukhi looked at his side profile. He seemed
much older than she’d thought at first. Some of it was
because of the grey hair, she thought. His face was
leathery and wrinkled. He wore tan colored trousers
and a starched white shirt with an open collar through
which a gold chain was visible around his neck. It was
nothing specific, but all of a sudden a sense of unease
arose in her. She looked ahead and wished that she
hadn’t taken this lift. The car stopped at the red signal
and out of the blue the man extended his right arm
and gripped her left shoulder.
“So, you like being married?”
“What are you doing?” Sukhi screamed, “stop! I
want to get out!”
The driver looked at her for a moment, removed
his hand from her shoulder, and without a word
brought the vehicle to the curbside and stopped. She
got out of the car and steadied herself and walked
home. She had overreacted, she told herself.
It was 1:00 pm when she reached the gates to
her building. Dan and Betsy were on their main floor
balcony. Dan saw her first and rushed out. She let him
guide her to Betsy. Sukhi tumbled into her wide open
arms and Betsy held Sukhi’s trembling body in the soft
caverns of soft silk caftaned bosom.
“Oh Betsy! I am so embarrassed. I overreacted.
That man. He was only trying to help.”
Three days later they heard the news, of a
discovery of a body, a woman, located off of a laneway
on the east side of Keele Street, north of the 15th Side
Road in King Township. The victim was Dianna Veronica
Singh, aged 21, a resident of Toronto who had been
reported missing. Dianna was last seen on Tuesday,
August 13, 1974 at 9 p.m. At the Becker’s Milk Store
located at Jane Street and Woolner Avenue in Toronto.
37
Prologue (excerpt from the novel The Pig and the
Soprano)
by Sandra Campbell
Twillingate 1935
On that last night, a fierce April storm. The pig
screeched above the howling wind, abandoned,
alone. Only she knew that the diva had passed.
After, in the graveyard, outside the family plot, a
great bonfire burned for a day and a night before the
frozen earth gave way enough to receive the diva’s
pine box. No stone marked her grave.
Adam Pringle, Twillingate’s harbour master,
trudged up the winding road to the weather-beaten
house that overlooked the harbour. He had to go.
In this house, his departed mother, once the town
midwife, had brought the diva into the world and
her sister, Susanna, and he knew all their stories.
Over the years he stalwartly refused townsfolk gossip
about the ‘fancy-pants singer’ and her ‘hoity toity’
family. His mother had loved them so, especially the
diva, whom he knew as Georgina Ann.
The Stirlings were the first family in Twillingate,
though their fortunes came and went. Georgina Ann
left for thirty-one years. They said she went to the
great opera houses in Paris and London and Milan,
but he didn’t know much about that.
Adam entered the grounds marked by toppling
grey fencing. The wide front door of the house was
pitted and scarred at its centre where a large knocker
had been pried loose. Adam pushed on the unyielding door before loping around the house to the side
door where he entered through the narrow pantry.
The acrid smell of urine stopped his breath. A fallen
stable broom blocked his entry into the kitchen.
He ventured down a narrow hallway, his heart
pounding, and entered an expansive front foyer. He
stood underneath a gaping hole in the ceiling and remembered his mother’s story of the crystal chandelier. A wide mahogany staircase, its maroon carpeted
steps faded and torn, swept upwards in a broad arc.
Upstairs, four closed doors. Adam pushed one
open and saw a wide bow window curtained with
cobwebs that overlooked the harbour. The threadbare carpet stank and in the corner of the room, a
mound of dried feces. Not the droppings of a dog or
a cat.
He looked into an open cupboard door and saw
inside empty bottles and a scattering of yellowing
envelopes and dusty paper. Some envelopes were
postmarked and some opened. On several, Miss
Georgina Ann Stirling was penned in fine Gothic
script, and on others, Maria Toulinguet. There was
a single postcard photo, without a message or an
address, but under the photograph on the front and
38
written in Gothic script was, ‘Georgina, Nightingale of
the North.’ He recognized the young lady, round face,
small, upturned nose and full lips, unsmiling, but not
her costume, the elegant ball gown, its bodice roped
with pearls, a long, white feather rising out of her
upswept chestnut hair.
Adam unfolded one letter and recognized the
florid expressions that the sister Susanna always
dismissed as ‘Diva talk.’
Browns Hotel
Mayfair, London. June 25, 1891
My dearest Susanna,
Soon you will see me. I will arrive, perhaps before you read this letter. My concern for you fills my
every waking moment and writing is a comfort, but
embracing you will be the greatest comfort of all.
Of course my darling you must understand
that last year, after Papa died, I would have broken
my contract for you—if that had been possible. And
now your letters tell me how you suffer still. The
Voice falters from the anguish your suffering causes
me and so Leopold has granted me leave to visit
you.
I will mail this on the way to lunch at The Ritz.
Leopold has arranged a full table of admirers who
wish to hear my stories of La Marchesi. They hunger
for all the enchanting details, One delights in their
interest and in offering homage to the greatest of
all teachers ever. The illustrious Marchesi, such a
blessing in one’s life!
After the luncheon, a final fitting of my summer dresses at my Mayfair couturier. You will enjoy
their bright colours.
My darling Susanna, with this letter, I enfold
you in my heart. Soon, I will enfold you in my arms.
Your most loving sister, Georgina
Sickening from the stench Adam left the letters
and went outside to the tilting shed. Its door fell
forward into his hands.
The inky interior was sticky with cobwebs and
feral cats darted in the shadows, a golden glow
from their eyes. At the far end of the barn was a
cracked, clouded window and under its dim light,
the long, wide mound of a creature lying on its side,
its large head resting on the ground. He crept closer
until the pungent odour of pig stopped his breath.
A long oval ear stood upright and twitched.
“Pig! Yer still here!”
He knew the animal. Townsfolk loved to tell
how Susanna rescued it shortly after she reclaimed
the family home. She named her Elberta, and then
brought her inside and refused to breed her or even
ring her, so that when the rains came the house
floated in mud. After the Diva returned people
noted how the pig attached herself to her. They said
it was the power of her singing. Adam saw it, pig to
woman, woman to pig and remarked to one and all
that whatever the cause, their attachment was like
muscle to bone.
With snuffling moans and grunts, the pig
struggled to stand, then moved into the light of
the window. Her twitching ears stood erect. Her
head swung back and forth as her small round
eyes ranged about. Empty pouches of graying flesh
hung from her spine highlighting her ribs. The long
bristles of her hair were matted and caked with
mud. Slobber dripped from her mouth.
Out of the shadows a small, coal black cat
emerged and the pig squealed an exuberant greeting,
her head bobbing up and down. On unsteady legs with
her ears twirling, her nose stabbing the air, its holes
opening and closing, she watched the cat approach. As
it wove itself between the pig’s legs, the pig sat back
on its haunches and the cat settled between its forelegs. Together they gazed on Adam.
Pig eyes see all around, sideways, forwards and
backwards and pig ears capture more than human
sounds in the world, the sounds of sun and wind and
water and earth’s creatures. The sounds pass into
blood and bones, muscle and sinew, and change the
rhythms of heart and lungs, the energy in muscles, the
marrow in bones. With its great snout, a pig uproots
the earth, absorbs its vibrations, exposes its secrets,
prepares the ground for new seeds to germinate. In all
of it a pig discovers stories.
Adam stooped beside Elberta, put his left hand on
her brow and stroked its furrows. The pig sighed deeply
and shifted her great body closer. He continued to
stroke until stillness descended and a quiet of infinite
depth. He cocked his ear and listened with his heart as
the pig began to remember the stories of Georgina all
down her length from her earth-sodden snout, along
the spikes of her spine to the curl of her tail, and down,
down, into her great, grieving heart.
Mare’s Tails
by Donna Costley
The morning sun is an orange yolk sliding onto the
pale blue sky, like a free-range chicken egg slides onto
an oiled skillet. Not that his mother would have called
her chickens free-range. She just let them out on the
tender spring grass as soon as the snow had melted to
crusty tufts scattered across the yard. And the hens,
feeling the freedom of unrestricted movement after a
winter of cramped, heated housing, would dash around
like kids dismissed at recess. After a long season of
scratching an icy penned surface for crumbling bits of
prepared feed and paltry kitchen scraps, the chickens
would tear at the juicy new shoots with abandon—
and pay for it with green beaks, projectile poop, and
orange-yoked eggs.
No one he knows keeps layers anymore, or raises
birds for meat. He and Anne did both, in their first
years on the farm. But as they took on more land and
his folks made an early move to town, there just didn’t
seem to be the time.
There’s not much in the sky for clouds this
morning, just wispy bits his dad called “mare’s tails,”
a sure sign of fair weather. But there’s a hopeful dark
blue band above the horizon to the north, and he says
the small silent prayer he’s been saying all spring for a
bit of rain to get the crops going.
He is on the last piece and it isn’t even the end of
May. In a way, it’s been good to have one long run of
sowing, and he knows he’s cursed the years he’s been
stopped for days on end by rain. But if he could choose
now, he’d have to say that spending a day cleaning up
the shop and doing a little fixing would be preferable
to the worry over early-seeded crops that lie in dry soil
and don’t get a chance to germinate.
Still, this is his last day of seeding and he’s
determined to enjoy it. He’d left the outfit at
Morrison’s homestead last night, so he parks his
half-ton beside the tumble-down barn that shelters
a pair of owls and a family of raccoons. The truck will
be in afternoon shade. He spends some time letting
his tractor warm up while he checks the air drill and
makes the rounds with his grease gun. He sinks with
a whoosh into the air-ride seat in his glassed-in cab,
settles his steel lunch kit on the sunflower-shelled floor,
and checks the blinking green monitors. He feels that
pulsing rush of adrenalin he suspects he shares only
with cockpit pilots. Not that this is something he would
say out loud, even to Anne.
From his vantage point high above the field and
the homestead, he watches for things he might see.
He shrugs off endless suggestions from friends who
tell him he could squeeze quite a few more bushels
out of his land if he’d spend a little time knocking
down the old buildings and overgrown yard sites of
the abandoned farms he now owns. He grins and nods
and lets them think he’s lazy, but the truth is he really
believes that it’s a small price—a few acres for a lot of
entertainment.
When he hauls grain to the Harper yard in the fall,
red-tailed hawks wheel and scream above the bins that
are backed by hundred-year-old poplars. They land on
the dead branches that stick through the greenery and
tell him in no uncertain terms to piss off. “Who,” he
shouts up to them in mock rage, “scares up multitudes
of field mice from the stubble every spring? And who
sits on front-row fence posts waiting to sail in for an
39
easy meal? Ungrateful birds!” he hollers.
At the Jessup place, just last week, he’d seen
a doe lying flat in last-year’s dusty grass at the edge
of the bud-ripe caraganas. Stretching her neck low
and keeping her ears down, she was convinced she
was camouflaged. In a little over a month, she will
have dappled twins to contend with. How often has
he heard a mamma deer bark at fawns out of hiding,
playing tag in the open, not listening to a thing she
has to say? Not much different than any kids on the
planet, least of all his. They ended up just fine though,
with good educations and jobs in the city. Very rarely
does he admit to the dull ache at the very bottom of
his heart. Except for the weekly turns they take coming
home to help with the harvest, not one of the four of
them is remotely interested in taking over the farm.
As he pulls away from the homestead he thinks
about the folks that once lived there. He wonders if
old Herman got a kick out of bouncing along on his
metal seat, turning around to see the seagulls scoop
in for earth-turned grubs. If Gertrude loved the round
warmth of the brown eggs she pulled from the scratchy
straw nests in the hen house. Morrisons, Harpers,
Jessups,, and four other names he lists. Seven families
whose farms he now works. Some retired, some passed
on, some left for greener pastures and steady incomes.
He thinks of each of them as he rolls over their land,
hopes he is doing them proud.
The sun is almost overhead now, a bright blaze.
The dark blue band to the north has disappeared.
Only the mare’s tails plume the sky. They are merely
whispers of clouds, he knows, but he thinks they
whisper that rain will come, rain will surely come.
Promise of Sweetness
by Michele Yeager
I want to love my mother. That’s what daughters do.
I visit her twice a week, her small apartment
dark as a cave and with the same desiccated smells
of animal life. Even if she or I could afford something
better or brighter, it wouldn’t make any difference. It
would be lightless within a week. She’s a black hole.
“Well - look what the cat shit out!”
She says this at the door. Her eyes are the grey
of plastic lawn furniture left outside too many winters,
and her lips draw to a thin line from constant practise. I
have never seen her with her hair down, for years now
her blond-over, thinning hair raked back and shellacked
into something Iron Ladyish. Today the edges are
wilted, the heat and her heavyset body working against
her. Her dress is manish, but neat, always neat. A
40
welcoming snort of disgust, and she turns her back,
leaving the door open and throwing a “fuck you” over
her shoulder. Twice a week for twenty-three years
doesn’t mean that I don’t hear the words.
Except for me, she has no one. No one that wants
to raise their hand and be counted. My brother put five
hundred permanent miles between them immediately
after highschool graduation, but he’d already signed
off somewhere around twelve or thirteen. It’s hard to
know exactly when – I was busy with my own twitchy
parent–teacher meetings and fabrications to put off
friendships, my own world of distancings and denials.
My father apparently stayed only a year and a half, and
my brother’s father, a quiet man who tried to tease me
out of my own quiet, disappeared after my brother’s
birth. All back in the misty recesses of time now. My
mother hasn’t had a relationship since. Not that she’d
recognize a lover if he showed up on her doorstep with
candy, flowers and a hotel key.
“I brought you some jam, Mom. Raspberry.”
“Did you get all the seeds? You know they get
under that goddam fucking plate. Might as well be
chewing rocks.”
She doesn’t like raspberries particularly. Of
course, she doesn’t like any fruit – rooted in an intense
hatred of dietary restrictions, aka the Canada Food
Guide. Who are they to tell her what’s good for her
own body? She of the forty pounds extra packaging,
the knobbed and twisted fingers and cross-hatched
toes, the dentured grip on what little meets her
digestive approval.
My mother is a deeply unhappy woman. As near
as I can google, her attitude has no roots in a medical
disorder. She doesn’t cultivate this incredible hostility
towards life (son of a bitch, that goddam heat/cold/
rain/sun/bus/mail/television/sofa/fridge) and the
living (who the Christ shit on his/her/your cornflakes?).
It’s not inherited. I do not remember my maternal
grandparents, but they were warm and welcoming.
Growing up, I clung to the one picture of them my
mother kept, two people smiling enthusiastically at the
camera.
I present her with hours of watering, weeding,
netting, picking, cooking, sieving and preserving.
“Fucking raspberries are the worst.”
“I’ll put it in your fridge.”
She hovers behind me as I place two jars in a door
pocket. Her fridge is bare and nearly spotless. She has
an obsession with cleanliness, curtailed only by bad
knees and arthritis.
“Don’t put it there! And if those fucking berries
are as sour as last year, you can take that goddam shit
home! I’ll just throw it out. Should anyway – too much
sugar isn’t good for me.”
Contradiction has never surfaced as an
impediment to her petulance.
Sweat begins to sticky my armpits. She refuses to
install air-conditioning because it will give her a cold.
“Did Mary clean your oven?”
The last time I visited my mother she was in full
tirade as she opened the door. She had been baking
– those goddamn shitty little store potatoes. Only my
mother bakes scalloped potatoes in a July heatwave.
The milk and cheese and butter had bubbled out and
burnt to a reeking, black crust on the bottom of her
oven.
“Mary? She’s on some fucking holiday until next
week. And she won’t bust her lazy ass cleaning my
oven when she does show up. There’ll be a million
goddam excuses and my oven will sit there, fucking
useless, for weeks!”
The tragedy of an oven unavailable to cook
whatever is necessary to push the heat in her
apartment beyond the endurance of a baobab quivers
in the air between us. Of course, she won’t use the
built-in cleaner because she’s heard that the high heat
damages the oven.
I open her oven and size up the task. My shirt
is clinging to my back already, but the alternative is
incessant complaining over a cup of coffee. We are
in round two of how little actual work her homecare
helper does, and I am up to my arm pits in oven slime,
wiping more than the remains of scalloped potatoes off
the walls and elements when she drops her bombshell.
Spits it out like its leaving a bad taste in her mouth.
“Kevin phoned yesterday.”
That is how patently unfair the world is. To her
it is one more bitch, while I would endure a million
mothers to casually toss Kevin into conversation. I
know better than to appear interested.
“Really? Kevin?”
“In the middle of Ellen. Fucking flakey as ever. You
never had any goddam sense when it came to men.”
She of the permanent relationship. I never had
any men, period. I had one man, Kevin, who handmade
pasta in my kitchen Tuesday nights and whose short,
curly beard hair clogged my sink for seven months. He
left last July, after I drove the three of us to a wedding
with the air conditioning off. He didn’t appreciate the
two hour trip. No one did.
I keep my head in the oven, sliding a rag through
the greasy foam, trying to herd it to some conclusion.
Like snaring snot in a swamp with a hairnet.
“Do you have any more rags, Mom?”
“You don’t need any more! One is plenty. Jesus.”
I wring out the rag in the plastic bucket she has
supplied. The gloves are too big and they slide around
on my hands. The finger ends flap uselessly.
“What did he want?”
“Kevin?
Who the fuck else, Mother??? The extra latex of
my little finger wedges underneath the element and I
jerk it free, rubbering sludge all over my hair. My face is
hot and dripping. I am greased in sweat.
“He said he was making knockies and he
remembered how much I liked them so he phoned.
Fucking flake. Who the hell phones from Toronto for
that?”
I suck in a breath I wanted to avoid. I picture
Kevin’s long fingers forming the pasta pockets, stirring
the sauce, shaping the anticipation of what was to
come.
“Well… he thought of you, Mom. That’s nice.”
“Bullshit! He didn’t fucking want to talk to me.”
This time I came all the way out of the oven.
My hair has fallen in my face and I use my forearm to
swipe it away, to rub the salt sting from my eyes. I feel
a smear of slime spread across my cheek, and I know
– sharper than my mother’s words - the loveliest thing
about me is my baby blue rubber gloves.
“What do you mean?”
She looks at me for a long second, her expression
almost neutral before it hardens.
“If you have to eat shit, don’t chew it!”
“What?”
“Finish cleaning the goddamn oven!” She is
practically yelling. “It doesn’t get any fucking easier if
you stop in the middle!”
It is as near a gift as anything I have ever received
from her.
She liked Kevin’s gnocchi. I’d forgotten that. I
chew anyway.
Picking raspberries is a job I like. I go alone,
slipping under the net that protects my little patch of
fruit from the city birds, a black, half-inch mesh that
I tack down at the edges with tent pegs and sticks. In
the early morning it is quiet – the birds scold me for my
stinginess but mostly there is only the distant sound of
traffic, heading somewhere. It is gentle work, fingers
more trustworthy than eyes, feeling ripeness in the
ease of leaving. It is peaceful and patient – the tangle
of stalks, the clutch of thorn and the snaggle of button
in mesh all accepted parts of the dance.
Today when I bend to raise the net I see the cats
have left me a present — a recent kill of robin, halfeaten, flush with green bottle flies. I bend to move it
aside and see that its feet and legs are tangled in the
net, and that is half eaten because only half of it was
accessible through the netting, the other part inside.
It must have found a way in, an opening between the
stakes and stones, drawn by the bright redness of the
fruit, the promise of sweetness. Easy to slip in, not so
easy to find a way out.
I make my apologies. Unpegging the stakes, I
bunch and raise the net and slip under it myself, gently
moving the robin aside. I rise on the other side, in an
enclosure transparent but walled nonetheless.
41
A Continuation
by Rebecca Costello
He had been a dancer his entire life. As a young boy, he
would watch his mother teach girls how to pirouette
and plie. When he had asked his parents if he could do
that - could learn to spin and twirl and move like he
was weightless - there had been mixed reactions.
His father, a booming and large man who worked
in a bank, his moustache like a fat and furry caterpillar
upon his lip, had outright refused, his face becoming
mottled with what could have passed as an alcoholic’s
flush. The stink of whiskey on his breath as he had
yelled at the young boy was disgusting.
His mother, on the other hand, had given him a
look, one that almost resembled pride upon her young
and disciplined features. She was affectionate, often
letting him sneak an extra cookie (“Just one, Michel, or
you’ll spoil your supper”). Her porcelain and thin self
wasn’t one that was usually expected of a mother, and
in those days being young and having a child was the
norm.
Eventually, his mother had won over his father,
claiming that he would find a nice ballerina of his own
when he was old enough to wed. And so his dream
became reality. He was clumsy at first, of course, being
only six when he began, that was probably why. His
mother had settled him into the classes, taking time in
the evenings and mornings to show him what to do.
After so many years, he had been brought
forward and put into shows, lifting girls and doing
dramatic dances of love that a boy at such an age
would fail to comprehend. He had no care of boyish
things, opting to spend most of his seventh year of life
in the new and special leotard bought for him on that
birthday. His father, having grown worse with his taste
for alcohol, became even more strict, and every second
of spare time was spent pouring over the accounts,
learning how to learn a new dance in a morning, only
to learn later how to make sure he could balance a
check book.
He didn’t recall much about his death, only the
sounds of a screech and crash. His memories often
came upon him in flashing moments, leaving him
in a shaking and confused state afterwards, curled
against the gravestone that bore his name. He knew
he had been on stage, practising for an upcoming
performance.
There was only one other boy in his class,
someone who had been closer to him than a brother
would be. They had spent time rehearsing together
day in and day out, and would often sneak off to late
night viewings, slipping behind theatres to watch the
old black and white reels; snickered together during
the airing of Snow White – hiding their delight in the
42
coloured images - claiming and promising each other
never to look for a girl who sang in such a squeaky
tone.
They were only young, at the time, and by then
the war front had begun, leaving people grasping at
fake realities to hide their fears. Performances became
something of a distraction, people seeking out a way to
hide from the new and deadly force that was sweeping
throughout the war.
Fortunately for himself and his friend, they were
deemed too young to fight, told to get back to doing
what they did best and not to make a fiasco. And this
performance, this opportunity of a lifetime had come
about so soon afterwards that they deemed it faith.
The boys spent weeks preparing, knowing only one of
them could be picked, yet both secretly hoping for the
other to get it, to be able to say that they knew such a
person.
They acted competitive publicly of course, for
fear of people thinking them too soft, of his father
becoming aggravated at the idea that his son had
wasted his life doing something he deemed useless.
Then came the night before his audition. He
had gotten the stage for the night, and had shown his
friend the movements and techniques he had hoped to
use during his audition, and had been in the middle of
a dance. He had grinned impishly to his friend, a hand
held out as though in offer of joining him this dance
but had been interrupted by a banging and clattering
noise from overhead. He barely had time to glance up,
still poised.
And then everything turned black.
Eldorado
by Gail Bowen
The night Cole Elliot moved into Precious Memories I
was standing in the shadows with my walker, smoking
the single cigarette I allow myself each day. From the
first I knew that Cole did not belong in an extended
care home. Most of our residents hadn’t driven
in years, but Cole arrived in a sleek, 1959 Cadillac
Eldorado with tailfins that glowed in the moonlight.
Cole glowed too. His snowy hair was thick; his
tan was deep, and his teeth were improbably white.
His step still had the spring of youth and he carried his
bags into the reception area unassisted.
The next morning he arrived at breakfast wearing
a periwinkle blue shirt that matched his eyes. By the
time the dishes were cleared, Cole had explained his
presence to everyone’s satisfaction but mine.
His story was simple. He was a widower who
missed his wife’s companionship and her cooking,
so he moved into Precious Memories. I was not
convinced. Intellectually, most of us had long since
passed our best before date, and the meals were a
succession of grayish-brown casseroles and dishes with
names like Hawaiian Surprise.
I watched as Cole attached himself to Angel, the
frail blonde across the hall from me. The first time I
met Angel, she told me she’d been at Woodstock, then
in a sweet voice she sang the Joni Mitchell song about
the weekend that changed history. The next time I saw
Angel, she repeated her performance note for note.
Every afternoon, as Cole helped her into the passenger
seat of the Eldorado, Angel was warbling Woodstock.
Cole was singing a different song. Once as I passed
them in the hall, I overheard him urging Angel to give
him power of attorney.
Death is a fact of life at Precious Memories and
when Angel unexpectedly made her way back to
the garden, I felt a pang. Cole did not. At dinner that
night, he sat with Rita Dolcetti, an ex-showgirl who
had married well. The next day, Rita took Angel’s place
beside Cole in the Eldorado. Ten days later Rita, like
Angel, passed away in her sleep.
That night when I went out for my smoke, I
witnessed an odd tableau. Cole approached his
Cadillac, stroked her flaring fins, inserted his key into
her trunk, removed a lock box and filled it with cash.
Logic suggested that Cole was paving the way
to his own city of gold with the assets of the women
of Precious Memories, but I needed proof. The next
morning when I dithered about needing help with my
investments, Cole had me in the passenger seat of his
Eldorado headed for my bank within the hour.
My investment portfolio was robust; nonetheless,
Cole was concerned. He suspected I was anemic
and recommended a vitamin regimen. As a retired
pharmacist I immediately recognized Coles’ ‘vitamins’
as depressants that, in combination with other drugs,
could kill.
Steeling myself for the task ahead took time, but
on a balmy June night, I brought along my BlackBerry
to photograph Cole counting his cash. I had him nicely
lined up when a cat leapt out of the bushes, straight
into my walker. As the cat yowled, Cole looked at me
with distaste. “I never trusted you,” he said. “Secret
smokers have no moral centre.”
I moved my walker towards his car. “It’s your word
against mine,” he said, slamming the trunk.
Cigarette between my lips, I removed the cap on
the gas tank. Cole was too quick for me. My intention
had been to blow up the Cadillac, but just as I threw
my lit cigarette towards the gas tank. Cole jumped into
the front seat.
The lockbox with the cash was fireproof. Cole
was not. His memorial service was held at Precious
Memories. We buried Cole with the ashes of his
Eldorado.
Something Like a Song
by Sharon Bird
Perhaps it’s the Irish dreamer in me. Perhaps it’s just a
little melancholy that comes on a day of rain that falls
with the flavor of missed opportunity or love lost to
a misstep in time. Maybe it’s typical in those on the
other side of sixty, but lately, and for some time now,
my thoughts drift and settle with a kind of certainty, on
longing. Not wishing for gold at the end of the rainbow
or wanting a fairytale ever after but pure longing,
that bittersweet pull, felt during moments of joy and
contentment. Rilke penned it as the sound just before
the bells chime. Proust described how a simple cookie,
masquerading as a shell, could cast us back in time to
moments of perfection that never really existed.
Listen, really listen to the melody and lyrics of
“Moon River.” No one does longing quite so well as
the saxophone. Watch again the old classic, “Splendor
in the Grass” and remember how you felt your first
love would last forever. When Natalie Wood takes that
trip to see her old flame, now clad in farmer’s overalls
and married, you know her gentle smile of acceptance
masks a still-burning hopefulness. In Glen Sorestad’s
poem, “Ancestral Dance,” you can feel the longing of
an old man as he picks up the fiddle and becomes one
with music. That ‘magic link with the man he was’
invests each memento we keep hidden away in dusty
boxes. Visit old memories from the past, explore what
ifs and walk along those roads not taken.
Just think back to a golden moment. It will catch
you, pull you under and make you wonder if there
really isn’t a finer place to be. It’s more than ‘the grass
is greener’ kind of thinking. When longing is genuine it
creeps up on you. Before you know it, summer’s bloom
is giving way to autumn dance among the leaves as
they scatter. Sometimes you may find yourself crying
as an old song you have heard a million times before
plays on the radio. Picture an old village hall in the
early 60s. Our small community gathered at Christmas
and just before Santa handed out candy bags, everyone
sang carols. I remember being seized with this emotion
I couldn’t understand. The adults around me were
exasperated. I sobbed with an abandon I didn’t have
the words to explain. As tears slid down my face, I
knew that sweet tension of joy to overjoy, no midpoint
to balance. And now these years later, all that life
was, is, and might be, seems to be just variations of
longing…something like a song.
43
A Frozen Saskatchewan Heart
by Susan Hathiramani
On a cool crisp fall morning on October 24, 2007, I
woke up to call that would change my life forever, and
shake my whole being through and through. As I looked
through the window that morning, I saw that crimson
leaves were falling off the trees, and my decoratedorange Jack-O-Lanterns sat on the porch of our 1906
house, eagerly awaiting the arrival of children on
Halloween. Ghosts and goblins swayed in the breeze. I
had attached the decorations to the white pillars of the
old porch a couple of days ago. We had renovated this
house together in the love and anticipation of spending
our golden years together.
My husband John had passed away that morning at
6:00 a.m. I had known for many months about the end
of his life and that his death was inevitable. However, I
was not ready for this announcement from my brotherin-law as I answered the phone. I still believed that a
miracle was possible for John and he would recover and
go into remission. My brother-in-law Garry told me that
my husband had passed away; he was gone forever. I
hung up the phone, crying and numb, all at the same
time. I prepared myself for the drive to Saskatoon.
John’s life was over and now I was faced with the stark
reality of having to face his death. All that I could do was
get in my car, meet with his family, and make the final
arrangements for a celebration of his life.
A month had gone by and I was still struggling with
my grief and learning to live alone. We had been married
for seventeen years. No matter what I thought, and how
much I had tried to prepare myself for this kind of loss,
my world was shattered. I felt devastated beyond words,
and it would take me several years to work through my
journey of loss and grief. I can only describe my husband
John as the “Eternal Optimist,” and during his battle
with cancer, he continued to work on his last project, to
create wind turbine energy, as he bravely faced his last
months of life.
We had one last walk together, two days before
he passed on to his new life. We admired the fall leaves,
chirping birds, and together we felt the warmth of the
autumn sun on our shoulders. As John and I slowly
walked to the stop sign at the end of the block, he gave
the sign a high five, as if to say he had made it this far
and would continue the walk.
At that time, I was the manager of a newspaper
in rural Saskatchewan. I felt so torn inside that I could
not be home each day to take care of him, but we still
had bills to pay. I struggled with the guilt of putting him
in the care of another. His sister Glenis kindly agreed
to take care of him, so I could continue to work at
the paper. I drove back and forth from Hawarden to
Saskatoon to visit him and spend time with his family.
At times, I felt helpless that I could not make him
44
well. We sought out doctors, heath foods and holistic
healers, but still his body and mind deteriorated rapidly.
We decided he would go to city and stay with his family
until the doctors could figure out what was wrong with
him. John had been sick for many months, and as usual,
he put on the brave front.
The diagnosis was terminal cancer. He called it
the “Big T- Rex.” I believe that he explained his illness
to me in terms that I could understand. This diagnosis
was an enormous monster that we both had to face
together. I tried my best to understand this “monster”
called cancer. His sister and brother- in- law, mom and
his children gathered around us to support and love
us through these times. The community I lived in also
supported us and helped us to finish shingling the house
we had moved into, that still needed repairs.
In rural Saskatchewan, we still have communities
and family that reach out to us in times of distress. Our
neighbors brought us homemade bread, and soup, as
an offering of comfort and support, the “helping hands”
I will always be grateful to all my friends and neighbors
for, those who helped us and came to our aid in the
darkest days.
When John died, I took only four days off from
work. All I knew was that I had to go back to work. My
heart was broken, to say the least. I went to work during
the day, and put all my efforts into being a manager
of the paper. I put on a brave front for my clients, and
staff. After work, I went home and cried until I thought
no more tears could come. I felt alone in the world.
Where did I fit in? I wanted to come home, talk with my
husband about the day, argue, and laugh with him over
politics or what our new puppy had eaten that day. I
thought about how we had watched movies together.
We would, slowly look across the room at each other to
see who was laughing or crying at the storyline.
Each night as I returned home and pulled up
into the driveway, I thought where has he gone too.
John usually would be outside, playing with our dogs.
Occasionally, I would come home to a note that had
been securely placed in our Scrabble game; the note was
always written hastily, ‘gone fishing, Love you honey, I
think that the fish might be biting over at Diefenbaker
Lake.’ He reminded me of an excited child who was
finally out of school for the summer.
How can your whole life change so much in one
day? I felt awkward with friends and family. We were a
couple and we had planned for the day we could retire
and go on new adventures together.
A couple of months after John had passed away, I
was driving home from work, and as I entered my little
village, there stood four horses in the pasture, basking in
a glorious sunset. I knew I would be facing another night
of going home to a house, now only a memory of what
my life had formerly been. A voice inside my head gently
urged me to get out of my car, go into the pasture, and
be with the horses. I stepped out of my car with my
camera, held securely in both of my hands. I noticed an
old mare standing in the field. I slowly approached her,
with an out stretched hand. The mare softly, nickered
and pawed the ground. I gently patted her soft nose
and scratched her behind the ears. I felt a sense of love
and warmth all around me. The horses knew I needed
tenderness, and sensed that a part of me was broken,
and they gathered around me. I focused on my camera
and shot as many pictures has I could. I stayed with the
horses until my hands were frozen. Time seemed to
stand still for me. Even though I was feeling frozen inside
and out, I felt that my soul was stirring; I felt goose
bumps, the kind that you feel when you know that a
higher power is at work. I stayed in that frozen pasture
until my heart and mind opened once again. I cried
and let my tears roll down my cheeks, drop by drop.
The horses had stayed by my side until they felt that
my release was complete. My thoughts shifted slowly,
and I felt an inner knowing that I would rediscover my
love for horses, children, and art, and regain my passion
for life. I drove home and downloaded my photos into
the computer. One particular photo comforted me the
most. A photo of the four horses, standing in the frozen
pasture, with the sun setting with orange and blue rays.
The sun set reminded me of a mother tucking in her
child at night, with a warm quilt, on a cold winter’s night.
A light surrounded these majestic horses, the horses had
comforted me with a mother’s love. I had, in fact, just
faced my own sunset, losing my husband. I saw that my
Creator was in this field and he/she was softly painting
a portrait for me, a picture of my life, one I could plainly
see, the frozen field in the horizon. Could my heart and
soul thaw out? I felt like I was receiving a promise from
my Creator, that healing from grief would be like the first
purple crocus popping up through the snow-covered
fields on the prairies. All I had to do was ask for help,
and I would not have to be alone with my grief. I let this
new understanding flow through my mind and soul. I
understood that I must continue my own journey in life
that day, standing in a frozen Saskatchewan field, and
having a new belief, and a deep knowing in my soul that
springtime would indeed return to me.
When You Were Young
by Rose Tournier
I walked into your room and observed you for just a
moment, your back to me, before saying hello. The
staff had moved your wheelchair in front of the huge
windows in your room and you sat there, quietly looking
out the window. There really isn’t much of a view from
there, a little green space and then the walls of the next
wing of the home. What were you thinking about, sitting
there so quietly and so intent? Where you thinking of
days gone by? Were you remembering when you were
young?
I’ve seen you like this before, not often but yet
more frequently as you became older. Shortly after
your husband, our stepfather, passed away, we decided
it was time for Homecare to come in and help you. We
sat with you when the homecare nurse came to access
your needs. She asked you question, and you just sat
and looked out of the window in your apartment. This
behavior was a huge departure of your usual gracious
hostess self. No offers of coffee, no statement that, “you
have to eat, here, at least have a cookie,” no interest in
asking her about her family and her work. No, you just
quietly sat, hardly paying attention to her questions, just
staring out of the window over your dining room table.
What were you thinking about? Were you remembering
when you were young? Were you thinking about happier
days?
Another time, after we decided it was time for you
to leave your apartment and move into a home where
you would be cared for, you happily packed your suitcase
and locked your apartment door. When I teased you and
said, “Well, say good-bye to your old place, Mom,” you
gleefully called back, over your shoulder, “Good-bye, old
place.” You were cheerful and chatted all the way down
the elevator and into my car. But as we drove to your
new home, you quietly said, “It’s so far away. I didn’t
think it would be this far,” even though in reality it was
only a couple dozen city blocks from your apartment.
Then you sat, once again quietly, once again looking out
a window – the car window this time, on the passenger
side. You were quiet the rest of the trip. What were
you thinking about? Were you remembering when you
were young? Were you recalling those heady days when
you moved into your first on-campus room, your first
apartment and then later your first home?
I remember the day you retired from teaching. The
school had invited the public to a tea in your honour
and the auditorium was filled with students, parents
and former students. Everyone was there because you
had touched their lives in some way. At one point, after
the speeches and acknowledgements, I noticed you
were sitting quietly at the front, looking out over the
people gathered there in your honour. You had a faraway
look in your eye. What were thinking about? Were
you remembering when you were young? Were you
thinking back to your first days at the helm of your first
classroom?
I found it difficult to watch you in what I perceived
as your sadness. I wanted you to be your happy self –
the woman who always had such a positive attitude.
And maybe, in your own way, you found that happiness
by reaching back into your memories and reliving them,
thereby removing yourself from your new reality. Now
that you are gone, I find that I also recall memories
from a time gone by. I think about a time when I, as a
little girl, could run to you and all my problems would
disappear, a time when you were young.
45
Love Beyond Borders
by Diana Koenning
Black and White
Babies in Nigeria
by Dee Robertson
It’s 1962 and Duffus, our cook, has come to tell me yet
again that his four-year-old Esther and my three-yearold Gerry are in trouble. They truly are the scourge of
his day.
Madam, madam, you be talkin dem picanins. You
da flog dem, dey be bad, bad picanins.
Why, Duffus? What did they do? They didn’t run
away again, did they?
No, no, dem picanins no da run, dey go necket.
Dey no fo put pants. I da say dem, Madam she da flog
you, she da flog you bedy good. Den we put fo pants,
and I go fo make supper. Den her mama she come fo
me to say dem picanins, Esta and Jedy, no got pants.
You da go flog dem. Dey be bad, bedy bad picanins.
Okay, Duffus, I’ll go out and tell them to put their
clothes back on, but you know, I really don’t care.
They’re just babies, and the clothes don’t really matter.
Aw, Madam, no pants dey make fo bad troubles
fo picanins. No be white picanin and black picanin fo
no clothes. Dem white man over by jail, him say bad
things fo see white picanin no pants and black picanin
too.
Really?! Did he say something to you about it?
No madam. Him say to small boy about picanins,
46
dem picanins playing on market road and no pants.
Him da say dey be like dogs. Dey no neba be like dogs.
Dey be babies!
Whoa Duffus, slow down. You know how many
stupid white people work down at the jail. They don’t
matter to us.
Yeah, Madam, dey be make bad time fo me and
dis house. Me be tell Esta mom dis picanin no come to
play Jedy, dey no got pants is no good.
Okay, I know what we’ll do. They can play in the
house or out in the yard at the back. We can lock that
gate and they’ll have to stay in the yard. Then no one
can see them. Because you know, we can spank them
every few minutes and they still won’t keep their
clothes on. Esther never had to wear clothes before,
and Gerry won’t keep his on if she doesn’t. Please,
let them play together. They’re such good friends. My
Gerry loves your Esther so much.
I be see dis madam. I be tink on it. I be say Esta
mom fo Jedy come to be fo Esta house. Dat be good.
Esta mom she da put pants on dem picanin, and she da
flog dem good.
Thanks Dufffus. You know Gerry would cry and cry
without Esther. He would be sad all day.
Ya Madam, I be see dis. Jedy and Esta, dey be got
luf. Maybe way way far dem days, white man and black
girl dey make brown baby and den no man fo fight dis.
The moment of a peaceful death is incredibly sacred.
You are so close to God, and those you love, that you
almost detach from our world, getting caught up in
the energy of theirs. The energy has a calming effect;
it isn’t scary, or dark, but peaceful. It’s as if time stands
still.
“How did we ever get to this point?” I wonder.
How is it that I am watching my 36-year-old sister die
from the very disease that robbed us of our mom?
Sleep eludes me as my mind plays through Kimberley’s
life events: graduation, giving me stiches when she
threw her shoe at my head, the day she was diagnosed,
and the countless doctors’ appointments. This journey
has taken us down a familiar, yet unfamiliar path.
When our mom got sick, I was a mere 9 months old.
There was no name for the illness, just a rare atrophy
of the brain, a genetic mutation. The doctors reassured
our father that none of his kids would ever get this
illness.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
Quickly, my mother forgot who I was, as being the
youngest of four meant I wasn’t yet in her long-term
memory. In earlier stages of the illness, she used to
repeat our names, “Aaron, Chris, Kimberley …Aaron.”
I was left standing there, dumfounded at being called
my brother’s name. As any four-year-old girl would
do, I quickly got angry and corrected her, “Mom, I’m
Diana!” She looked past me, not knowing what I was
saying, not knowing me.
This sickness I’ve watched my entire life. Mom
lost her voice when I was quite young; for a while all
she could say was “no.” That just meant, don’t ask
Mom for anything! Silence soon followed and we
longed to hear her “no.” I was six years old when mom
went into full-time care. She was left with the ability to
pump a heart and breathe on her own. All memories,
physical abilities, her quality of life, was stolen by a
disease without a name.
Our mom passed away at the age of 53. I donated
her brain to science in the hope of finally getting a
name attached to this disease, and hope, perhaps, for
Kimberley. A year and a half later, we found ourselves
in a room filled with neurologists and neuroscientists,
bantering back and forth, trying to come up with
a diagnosis. Finally, after much consultation with
professionals from around the world, they named it
Spinocerebellar Ataxia, Type 26. As far as science knew
then, they were the only two in North America with
this particular strain of the disease. After 27 years we
got a name, but what we did not get was hope.
It has been a long, hard-fought battled for
Kimberley. As much as I have watched the disease
grapple both her mind and body, she is the only one
that watched the incredible suffering as a child, and
then experienced it herself. What a tough girl she was
to face the cards life put in front of her. She is tired; it
is time she lays down her battle sword and lets life go.
I have a heavy, yet understanding heart, for I know I
would not have been so courageous. This battle for
her needs to be over. It is not going to be won. I don’t
look at it as though she’s lost, but rather see that her
journey is one of so much gained, sacrificed if you
will, for the greater good, for learning, for love. This
disease has taught me to cherish your health, know
that life isn’t fair, but sometimes it’s not meant to be.
It’s taught me what inner strength and courage truly
looks like. It has shown me that no matter how much
money you have, what brand clothes you wear on your
back, or what vehicle you drive, death will meet us all,
sometime. I’ve learned that you can say more without
words than with, that body language does most of our
talking anyway. I’ve learned that to love someone you
don’t need to hear them say, “I love you”—it is just
deeply known. Ironically, I am a person of the written
word, with much to say, but this disease has taught me
how to say it.
As the hour of death closes in, the feelings of
love overwhelm my heart. The peaceful feeling that
this is right, that it is her time, they are undeniable.
Mom’s spirit is ever comforting, like a warm jean quilt
enveloping both of us. The time is hers and as quickly
as her soul passed into this world on March 25th, 1976,
it so too passes away, at 12:00 p.m. on January 29th,
2013.
Goodbye, my dearest Kimberley. I will never
forget your infectious laugh, dimpled grin, and sense
of humour riddled with epic timing and the element of
surprise, your support and friendship, and quiet love.
Your soul leaves a void in my heart, but the lessons you
have taught will trickle down for many generations to
come. They will speak of their brave ancestors who
battled something rarely fought, and the sacrifice of life
made for lessons.
Life is a gift, and yes, in our day-to-day routine, we
tend to forget it. We get caught up in the happenings
of family, friends and work. However, we must not
forget the people who have gone before us, for they
are our foundation to build a better, stronger, more
loving life. Being the only girl in the Kirk family not to
get sick with this disease, and the only one left with a
voice, I feel the need to share this story with the world,
in the hope that their suffering will touch you deeply,
and remind you how precious it is to embrace the gift
we so nonchalantly refer to as life.
47
The Battlefield
by Andrew Hartman
I force my eyes open. I notice the sun dances through the
blinds causing reflections on my walls, as if my awakening
is a celebration. I swing my feet over the side of my bed.
One foot, then the other, slowly I stand. The weight of my
body causes the muscles in my feet to seize, every muscle
that surrounds my ankles decide to go on strike at the same
time, as if joining together in protest of the sheer thought of
standing.
My feet feel like overworked employees on minimum
wage in the middle of a recession. They have seen
Braveheart one too many times as they scream “FREEEDOM”
through my first few steps.
My cell phone rings. I’m being drafted. It’s a text from
my mother and she needs me to get her yogurt. I head out
and arrive at the battlefield. My car door slams. The sound
echoes through the parking lot, which is lost in the buzzing of
the busy streets. I walk to the door.
“Hey you!” a middle aged man bellows from across
the parking lot, “You in the blue!” I look down at my sleeve
noticing my sweater matches the ID of his next victim. “What
the hell are you doing parking there?” My fight or flight
response kicks in, my world slips away and I am pulled into
his. My hands begin to sweat and my knees start to rattle,
sounding like a skeleton playing a pair of maracas.
I look over at my car with my blue handicap sticker
hanging from my rear view mirror. It flies high in the air that
projects crosshairs on my back for people to shoot at. I take a
breath trying to hide the quiver in my voice and say “I don’t
see anything wrong.”
“Look at you, there’s nothing wrong with you! People
like you make me sick.” His attacks turn into an interrogation.
“Where is my handicapped mother supposed to park when
punks like you are abusing the system?”
My eyes widen. My stomach drops. I stand there in the
middle of the parking lot exposed as if this man has broken
into my house and read my diary, shooting my own insecure
thoughts directly at me.
My world begins to spin as I feel the stares of everyone
around watch the interaction. People lock on to me. I am not
sure if the looks are of disgust as if I have just robbed a bank
or horror that I am in the middle of a high-school cafeteria
naked. Naked and defenseless I stand.
The man continues to yell at me. I can’t make out his
words anymore between the locked gazes and spinning
parking lot. My legs won’t move, I’m stuck. Why can’t
I move? Biology has failed me, which is ironic since in
university I almost failed Biology. Why has it chosen now to
get its revenge? I am supposed to have fight-or-flight; I can’t
seem to do either. Walter Cannon forgot about the third
acute stress response: drop in the ocean like a brick.
He leaves, dropping his nuclear bomb in my life, and
leaving, blowing away every ounce of confidence I had
in myself away. I look over my body, checking to see if I
survived. I notice peoples gazes are gone, I begin to gain
control of my feet but now I am blinded by tears. I wipe them
away and remember my mission. I walk through the grocery
store, every two steps wiping away floods. My nose has gone
now rogue and is running profusely.
Why is my objective at the other end of the store? I
walk down aisles that come from a dream. They are never-
48
ending, growing longer with every step I take. Finally, I’ve
arrived. I grab the yogurt and make the journey back through
the maze. I decide to use the self-serve check out. I am not
sure if my mouth still functions.
Back in my car, I put my stick shift in first, and pull out
of the parking lot. The flood comes back so I pull over, as I
need to break down. I compose myself and drive. One block
later I break down again. I repeat this cycle over and over
again.
I arrive at my parents’ house; the 10 km took forever to
get here. I take a moment to compose myself before crossing
the threshold of safety. I enter. It seems like no one is home.
I play a quick game of hide and seek in my parents’ house,
looking for someone. I find my mother; she is doing laundry.
One look at me and she asks, “What happened?” Tears
poor down my face and I begin to sob. At this point I have
regressed to a newborn child, where I can no longer form
words and can only communicate through sobs and cries.
My body vibrates as I gasp for air. My mother searches
my body, looking for bullet holes. Being mortally wounded
could be the only explanation for the fact that her six foot
son has now crumbled. She asks again, “What happened?!”
I bluster out unintelligible words that could only come from
something that was birthed from a whale that had mated
with a cat. She changes her strategy and we begin to play
twenty questions as she puts her detective hat on, the
questions for only yes or no answers.
“Are you okay?” I shake my head yes.
“Did you get into an accident?” I throw my head from
left to right.
“Are you hurt?” she gets the same response.
I regain the ability to form one-word answers. “Guy…
attacked... me.”
Through sobs, tears and one-word answers she
deciphers what happened. Putting puzzles pieces together,
moving words around to make sense of the matter. She calms
me, trying to get me back to the place where I am on my feet,
something she used to do years ago when I’d fallen off my
bike.
I don’t know if I can get up this time, shattered into
a million pieces. My greatest fears and insecurities were
brought into my life in the shape of this man, starring him in
a movie in the back of my mind, to be played over and over
again. I want it to stop.
I sit there on a stool in my mother’s kitchen; she is
strategizing with me on how I would defend myself next time.
Her words sound hollow. I feel hollow. The thought of a next
time seems impossible. I haven’t gone through this time yet.
I can’t get his voice out of my head. I am miles away from the
war in my nest of safety, but I still can’t escape him. I keep
hearing that voice, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
His voice goes around in my head, playing through
an old record player, distorted and never stopping. The
more it plays the more lost I find myself. I listen closely to
these words that I know have said to myself. The more I pay
attention to his voice the more I realize it’s my own voice I
hear.
I lay down my head, resting before I slip out of this
world and into my dreams, a place where my mind can make
sense of this day. I can’t seem to fall asleep. I hear my voice,
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” I can’t make it stop.
Breathe, that’s all I can do. Just breathe.
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