‘Schoolyards in Subways Cars’ by April Ford

Poetry

They sit across from us in subway cars,
the Joans and the Tracys of our pasts,
the prissy girls who dared us to be cool,
the cool girls who didn’t know we existed
except when the Matthews and the Andrews
passed their fathers’ (sometimes mothers’) beatings onto us
during recesses and lunches,
when none of the grownups in the schoolyard
even pretended to pretend not to notice.

But we noticed.

Now those Joans and Tracys and Matthews and Andrews
across from us in subway cars are no longer mysterious;
we are no longer curious about how they turned out.
One became a lawyer,
the other cranks cock like an old-timey cash register.
And the guys:
One’s in prison, of course,
and the other is just some guy.
Married, kids, two-car garage (such a thing of the past!),

pending heart attack.

Do they miss the longing for longing of youth?
I hope one day I’ll be able to look back and say….
The obliviousness to time extending beyond the age of innocence
to the age of guaranteed failure: jobs, loan applications, pregnancies,
marriages, breath alcohol tests.
Joan and Tracy, Matthew and Andrew:
You are the worst part of our pasts.
You are the ugly retro sweatshirts now back in vogue
because four-year college programs and reality tv shows

call it “fashion.”

The faces of the Tracys will live forever in subway cars,
the Joans you knew but have never known.
Now, you stare fearlessly at the Matthews and the Andrews,
will them to meet your frothy female gaze.
When they look up, you pass through a portal
to where everyone in the subway car who isn’t looking up
is the grownup in the schoolyard who didn’t even pretend not to
pretend.
It’s your time to shine—hurry! Disassemble the past before it’s your
stop
and the faces become again just faces, prissy, cool, cruel

behind sliding, closing doors.

 

APRIL FORD lived in the U.S. for a decade, where she taught undergraduate creative writing. She has now returned home to Montreal. Her debut novel is forthcoming spring 2020 with Inanna Publications, and her debut story collection was released by SFWP in 2015. She is the recipient of a 2016 Pushcart Prize, and her work has been featured in various journals including Grain, The Lascaux Review, and QWF Writes. She is Associate Publisher of SFK Press.

Copyright © 2019 by April Ford. All rights reserved.

‘On the Run’ by Judy Fischer

Fiction, Short Stories
Dec Entires
Illustration by Andres Garzon

 

Exerpt From: Chronicles of a Young Immigrant Girl
Chapter One — On the Run by Judy Fischer

Budapest, Hungary 1956

It was toward the end of September 1956 when the leaves from all the inner-city trees had already fallen. The dead, brown foliage lay thick and heavy on the sidewalks of my home town. Those sweet smells of summer and the feeling of hope that accompanies the happiest season of the year was slowly coming to an end as the autumn of that particular year made its ugly appearance. It was showing signs of a more ominous and frightful season than those previously. A hint of terror hovered over the entire country of Hungary.

There was a cold nip in the air awaiting us as our tiny airplane landed at the local airport following a month-long trip to my father’s childhood home. The summer vacation to Bulgaria was my first trip abroad, and although at six I was indifferent to its significance, I did enjoy the trappings linked to the fun and excitement. Whether our trip was the result of something my father foresaw and feared, or a well-deserved vacation, I will never know. Too young to have recognized the political atmosphere of the time, the trip was just a magnificent adventure for me. My father was a man in his fifties who had out-lived many tragedies in his life. Having survived World War One by fleeing his birth country, and adopting a new language and culture in Bulgaria, my father must have known there was something terrible brewing in the wind. A longing to visit his parents’ graves possibly for the last time was his main reason for going. Arriving there was very rewarding, but returning home proved to be perilous.

School started before I came home. Though my first day of school should have been memorable, it was not. The grade one class had made their first day of school memories and friendships without me, and I arrived at their doorstep a stranger. The one month I remained in school was as traumatic as the month that followed. On October 23rd, a caravan of Russian tanks stormed into Budapest following a civil uprising and all hell broke loose. To squelch the revolutionary sentiments forming strongly in the hearts of many, foreign soldiers in full uniform arrived. Soon, chaos and fighting became an everyday reality. At the age of six, I knew little and understood even less, about war. The fear and terror written on the faces of my neighbors and strangers on the street was, however, the harsh lesson I soon learned.

After the invasion, the city became a war zone. My mother made an honest effort to keep me safe and to protect me from the harsh truth, yet she decided to take our afternoon walk, even though something ominous was happening in the streets of Budapest. She dressed me in a warm fall jacket, but without a hat to cover my blond curls. Even those fall garments could not protect me from the things I was about to see. While the cold was not the threat, the scene outside was. I was only six years old. Young children should only see the wonderful side of life, not the atrocities of war. Nonetheless, we walked through the crowds. There were people everywhere. Horrified, they staggered from place to place. But it was just another day for me, walking hand in hand with my mother. Around me, an era had just come to an end. People were running through the streets. Some were screaming, some were just making awful sounds, and others were staring up toward the sky. In the park, naked bodies swung from gigantic trees. They were on display for everyone to see. I couldn’t understand what was happening, and my mother’s answer was enough at the time. She told me that the men were being punished for the bad things they had done. That they were being displayed as examples to warn those who were thinking of doing the same bad things. I did not question it. She begged me not to look up. But how could I not? My young eyes had never witnessed such horrific sights. How was I supposed to make any sense of them? As we walked, there was a soft cushion under our feet. It wasn’t like the hard cement sidewalks that I recalled from our past walks. Upon a closer look we could see faded, muddy and shredded garments. But it was not the garments providing the cushion. It was the dead bodies of the people who wore them. There was an odor in the air, something heavy and indicative of blood and death.

The following day, as we sat in our kitchen, the sounds of bullets echoed through the streets nearby and the sound was coming closer. They bounced off the walls under of our own kitchen window without warning. My parents grabbed me by the hand and hustled all of us downstairs to the bomb shelter. We ran with the other tenants to save ourselves. We huddled close together for safety, and to find a little comfort. No one really felt safe after those first weeks of the uprising while the Revolution of October 23 kept raging on. My parents quietly plotted our escape. I was too young to be included in the preparations.

My mother gave me a bag, and instructed me to fill it with a day’s worth of clothing and one of my favorite dolls. I wanted to take many more, but there was no more room in it. On November 20, almost one month since the beginning of the revolt, we left the comforts of our home with a small suitcase each by our side. It was my 7th birthday. I was abandoning my childhood, my innocence, my cousins, all my dolls and my favorite toys. But I had no inclination of what was happening around me. The disruption in my life was disturbing, yet through the eyes of a child, reality was tempered. The adults made all the necessary plans, children obeyed and followed. There was a definite advantage to being young and naive. To prevent a disaster, I was told we were going to visit my grandmother who lived in a neighbouring town. I used to go there often, but never by train. I was joyful about our unexpected trip. It was my birthday after all, so going to celebrate with my grandmother was not unthinkable.

The train station was jam-packed. It was noisy, and people were pushy. Hysteria. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. I was just happy to be visiting my grandmother, and was telling anybody who stopped and listened to me. But they laughed at me. The train was not going to take me to my grandmother. It was taking me to a new life far away.

The train ride was quite uneventful. It was quiet and somber. Fear was written on the faces of each passenger. Unable to move, we all sat crammed together. The oxygen got thinner with each kilometer the train moved, and a few passengers fainted in the aisles. When the train finally stopped, the scene changed. People yelled as they climbed out by the windows unto the platform. People were acting like caged animals trying to set themselves free. The aisles remained crowded, and sweat dripped from everybody. My innocence was now stolen, and the hope of sharing my birthday with my grandmother had vanished. I could not ignore the fear in my mother’s eyes. I started to cry.

The border between Hungary and Austria was unarmed, and the border guards had abandoned their posts. The message as suggested by the news reports encouraged more and more people to seek asylum outside of Hungary. There was an urgency to get to the border before it would again be closed.  It was accessible, but far away from where the train could go. The rest of our journey had to be continued by foot, and in the dark of the night.

I turned seven. I was a cry-baby and complained from the minute we started on foot. It must have been terrible to travel such a dangerous journey with a young child. I complained about the blisters on my feet, about my hunger pains and about my fatigue. My father had sadness and uncertainty in his eyes and voice. We did not rest very often. There was no time to delay, for there was an urgency in every step that brought us closer to freedom. I remember taking refuge in a farmer’s house. We were there given hot food and the adults were treated to strong homemade brandy to calm their nerves. These good Samaritans opened their homes to all those needing some comfort and warmth. The quest for a better life became a monumental challenge my parents had not foreseen.

Our trek toward the border was also interrupted by one very frightening incident. On the road we walked on during the day, the anti-revolutionary movement had a pickup route. They travelled back and forth picking up stragglers, and collecting and depositing them into makeshift prisons. Nobody was legally allowed to leave the country. The trucks they were using were cruising the area at the same time we were on our last few kilometers. The anticipation of being caught made the journey more terrifying. We had joined up with a group of others who were also finding their way to the border. The group of travellers, made up of young adults, were compassionate, but travelling with a crying and complaining child tested their patience.  My father insisted that we stay at the end of the line. As we walked, a young man on a motorcycle pulled up beside us. He was heading in the same direction, and kindly volunteered to take me on his motorbike. He offered to deliver me to a milestone further up the road.  Without hesitation, my father agreed. Seeing I was having a difficult time keeping up, this was a very good opportunity. But the decision he made to keep me from crying and to make better progress on this last stretch of the road nearly separated us from each other. It could have been forever.

My ride up the road was memorable. I can still remember the cold breeze blowing my hat off my head, but the pain from my blisters was gone. I was focused on holding onto my escort with both arms, so looking back was impossible. My parents were too far behind. I felt strange without the security of my mother’s hand holding mine.  But sitting without pain was a welcome relief that outweighed the loss. We arrived at the checkpoint where we had agreed to reunite. The young man and I sat on the cold, damp grassy shoulder. Suddenly, the sound of a truck roaring in the distance brought my companion to his feet as he pushed me under a nearby bush. The engine’s thunderous echo came from the same direction as my parents. As it approached, my young escort seemed more agitated and motioned at me, signalling that I should remain in hiding and silent. The truck came closer and closer to where we were waiting. As it passed us by, I could see it was full of people standing close together. There were so many, there was no room for even one more person. My escort gazed quickly at the truck, and looked very worried. Then in the far distance, we saw the group of people I had been walking with, and I saw my mother and father leading them. Their faces of relief were obvious as they ran toward me. We were reunited. I didn’t know what all the fuss had been about. We were together and hopefully, I thought, never to be separated again. Little did I know that it was by sheer luck and good fortune that neither my parents, nor I became passengers on that prison-bound truck.

 

JUDY FISCHER is a Montrealer by love and choice. She is the author of He Fell From the Sky and Missy Loves René, two books published in the last two years.

Copyright © 2019 by Judy Fischer. All rights reserved.

‘Overcoming Gravity’ by @iamshellshot

Photography

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@iamshellshot as a visual artist,  T. “Donatello” Fletcher’s style consists of colourful, energetic movement and imagery stemming from his background in dance. He embraces a conceptual approach towards literal wordplay, expressed through photography, videography, and directing. He makes his bed in Ottawa, Ontario but does with the comfort of being close to his birthplace in Montreal.

JENNY YANG studied International Relations at the University of Cambridge. She has worked for the NATO Association of Canada, INTERPOL, Global Affairs Canada, and the Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons (OPCW). She has published articles related to women in peacekeeping, separatism, and the ethics of lethal autonomous weapons.

Copyright © 2019 by @iamshellshot. All rights reserved.

‘Adam’s Eve’ by Michael Vincent Moore

Fiction, Short Stories

Adams Eve

Illustration by Andres Garzon

 

Adam, in a horrid state, rouses himself up and searches about, no one to be seen. He stumbles up from the patch of leaves he is laying on. Adam wanders, nude, distraught, seeking. He catches a glimpse of Eve in the distance, stretched out in the shaded grass next to a pond, equally nude. He joins with her. As Adam approaches, Eve looks up at him, and observes his discomfited nature. Before she can formulate a word, he attempts to untangle his disjointed thoughts.

“Eve, I, you.”

Eve, incapable of grasping Adam’s swollen and despairing countenance, nor of embodying his inner turmoil, barely glances at him before returning to her peaceful rest.

Adam, desperate to impress upon Eve the horrific images he has just perceived, proceeds with much effort to render in words his tumultuous tale. “You could not believe what I have just beheld; a dreadful event is poised to burst after us. Such horror, such hopelessness, beyond apprehension.” He lets himself fall next to her, in abject wretchedness.

Eve turns back to him, astounded. “What? Horror, here?”

“No, it was not within this space that I saw it.”

Eve, lost in thought, ponders his words for a moment, then focuses back on Adam, curious. “But we have never been anywhere else.”

Adam fixes his gaze to the crystalline reflections of the star’s rays upon the pond as he endeavours to understand this event. “I was here, then I slumbered, then I was there, and then I was here again.”

Eve raises to her side and leans on Adam’s knee, as the mystery of his experience captures more of her faculties. “Adam, are you implying that he brought you to another place?”

“I am not certain where I was, but it was not here that I conjured these things, this I know.”

“What things?”

“The most horrible things: Agony, decay, pollution, craving, sordid creations. So many people living in fear, living in torment of the worst sort.”

Eve caresses Adam’s flowing hair, attempting to assuage his ill feelings. “I still do not understand. What horrible place do you speak of?”

“It was called Earth, and its history was conferred to my existence in an unending succession of ghastly images. Part of me was there. Part of me endured all of it with them, through them.” He pauses, sorely recollecting those sensations. “A whole world. Inhabitants born, living short suffered lives. Inhabitants who then died of disease, lost hope, regret, hunger. Even murder!”

Eve freezes, her hand still intertwined in Adam’s hair. Her eyes widen. “Murder?”

“Yes, murder, and so much worse still.”

Adam looks at Eve earnestly, trying to gauge her level of discernment, of how far he should delve into the reality of what he has seen without compromising her innocence, her amity.

“Things worse than murder? How could such a place even exist?”

She resumes caressing his hair. Adam further contemplates Eve’s well-being and chooses to discontinue the elaborations of his descriptions.

“I have perceived things that I ought not repeat to you. I have seen what it is that some of these people have done to one another.” He temporarily interrupts his discourse, the painful images coming back to him in the moment. “It is so hideous that it induces a magnitude of displeasure to my being. Billions of people, struggling, over and over again. Life and death. No respite, no end.”

“My dear Adam, even though I am familiar with all these words you speak of, I am at a loss to comprehend the consequence of them, or to sympathize in any way.” As Eve speaks to Adam, she gently slides her hand over his arm in  tender affection.

“Be grateful of that,” Adam replies. “For I have felt their anguish, and I would spare you of it at any expenditure.”

“Was it all so evil? Was there not any redeeming attributes to this place you have sojourned to?”

“Some, but all far eclipsed by the governing perversity to which the beauty could be measured in drops, but the suffering, in oceans.” Adam shakes his head in a dejected manner.

“How can he have brought you there, and why?”

He contemplates Eve’s query, and a faint impression springs forth to him. “It was for a purpose, and,” Adam, arrested in mid-account, his eyes fixed to the ground, becomes exceedingly faint. “Oh, I saw how this place came to be.”

“How it came to be?”

A flash of horror thunders through his mind, and a subsequent expression of great heartache ripples across his facial features, distorting them to an almost unrecognizable form. Eve recoils in fright.

“It, it was because of us. We were responsible.”

Of a sudden, Adam obediently bows his head and shamefully shadows his appearance nether the veil of his consentient palms.

On hearing of Adam’s self-recriminations, of them being at the origin of this harrowing other-worldly disturbance, Eve overcomes her momentary displeasure to Adam’s harsh judgment. She becomes defensive and asks: “How could we be responsible for such a place?”

Adam is despondent and Eve pulls at his hands. At his grief-stricken expression, she grows concerned. “Adam, speak to me!”

Adam takes a few moments to constitute himself, and hesitantly proceeds with the account. “It was that which you were attempting to prevail over me. Us. Our parts, joining together.”

Eve wrenches herself away from Adam in consternation. “How can that have anything to do with this place you called Earth, where you witnessed countless people suffering so dreadfully?”

“I do not know, but he admonished us not to do certain things. He said that there would be grave repercussions.”

Eve cannot come to terms with this inference, this connection that Adam is implying, particularly not through any fault or influence of her own. “But how can there be such grave repercussions for anything we do here? This place is so idyllic?”

“Again, I do not know. But his essence left me somehow within that moment. I experienced darkness, loss of harmony, and we became them,  all of it was created from us.” Adam trembles as he unsuccessfully attempts to dislodge those impressions from his knowing. “Please do not try to persuade me again, do not even refer to it any longer!”

Having difficulty facing Eve and her insistence in the matter despite an admonition of this horrifying outcome, Adam turns aside in dismay.

Eve still contests Adam’s resolve. “But, Adam, I yearn for it in a way I cannot explain.”

Delicately resting her head on his shoulder, Eve proffers an embrace.

“Eve, I beg you. After what I have been through, I would as soon tear it off and burn it to ashes before I would even attempt such a thing with it, the consequences are far too important, just because of this, union, you yearn for.”

“Adam, do not be so hurried to settle your judgment. Please, consider my feelings further.” Through the sensations they are communing by their corporeal link, Eve feels Adam draw back. She reasserts her longing by keeping to him in a more coercive clench.

“No Eve, my word is final. There is nothing additional that you can do or say to convince me otherwise. I am going to Father now, to impart to him what I have witnessed. I will make him aware that he can rest assured, never will I be betrayed to go against him.”

Forcefully parting with Eve, Adam stands. “He will be disappointed of hearing about this deception that we have considered, our contemplation of going against his word. But he is forgiving and will be reassured of my renewed convictions and obeisance.”

Adam distances himself, as Eve, disheartened, sulks into the ground.

 

MICHAEL VINCENT MOORE is a social science writer and lifelong meditator, with extensive studies on human behaviour and dream research with over 30,000 reviewed dreams, and an active dream journal spanning over two decades. Fascinated by the potential of dreams and consciousness and their connection with our ultimate reality, he has devoted much of his time attempting to unravel the mysteries they contain through himself and others. Much of his insights and findings are translated into both his fiction and non-fiction writing. He is also the founder of TheOneHumanProject.com, a global initiative with a mission to scientifically prove that we are all connected.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael Vincent Moore. All rights reserved.

‘Messmer, Leonard Cohen, and a Baby’ by Lea Beddia

Non-Fiction, Short Stories
Messmer
Illustration by Andres Garzon

 

The hypnotist’s voice is a glacial lake: smooth, distant, cold, and piercing. It says, “Close your eyes and put your hands together in front of you.” The tips of my fingers touch, as if in prayer. “Your hands are fused together.” My hands are magnets. My arms shake from the force.

“You feel the bond increasing as your hands squeeze together even stronger.” Vines sprout from my wrists. Cold and heavy, like wrought iron, they twist and tangle around my fingers. I can no longer keep my hands lifted in front of me. The weight forces me to bend forward so I can rest my elbows on my thighs. The vines get so long they yank my hands to the ground. I separate my knees to spare my feet from getting caught.

In this position, I realize this is what anxiety feels like. It creeps up on me and weighs me down. I struggle against it, seeking control. Mostly, I try to hide it, which is impossible when I’m being pulled down.

“Your hands will not come apart,” the voice, interrupting my thoughts, stings my ears, like a caught bee. I try to tear my hands apart, but the vines are unyielding, and I am their prisoner. I hold my breath.

“If your hands cannot come undone, stand up.”

Despite the weight, I stand. Okay, someone is going to help me. Good. I don’t panic. This is a minor inconvenience. Now someone has gardening shears equipped with a blow torch to get through the vines. I exhale.

“If you are standing, you will be able to separate your hands on the count of three. One, two, three.”

The spell is broken. The vines loosen and fall to the ground. I kick them under the seat in front of me.

The voice speaks again, “Raise your right hand.” Freedom! “If your right arm is in the air, open your eyes.” The vines melt into the floor.

The power of suggestion has infiltrated.

I am suddenly aware that my husband, his sister and her boyfriend are looking at me, chuckling. I laugh too, but I don’t know what’s funny.

I remember that I’m in a vocational studies auditorium in Joliette, Quebec, and Messmer has hypnotized me. There are about two hundred other people attending the show.

I had always been curious about hypnotists, wondering if the people who end up onstage at these shows are paid actors. Could someone really tap into another’s subconscious with their voice? I went to the show to find out.

We sat through the first act in hysterics at the absurd things Messmer made audience members go through. Two men, who did not know each other, were spooning on the stage floor while their girlfriends watched from their seats.  Another chump, who had been under the spell, started dancing the merengue. It was good entertainment, but how much of it was real? We all have that voice inside our head telling us not to embarrass ourselves; so, I figured they were actors.

After the intermission, the hypnotist asked us to close our eyes and listen only to the sound of his voice. I didn’t think that it would be my turn to be hypnotized in a few moment.

The voice continues, “If your hand is in the air, please join us onstage.”

An usher approaches me, holding out his hand in a welcoming gesture. I’m one of the chumps. My friends are laughing at me, but I’m not bothered by it. It must be the voice, calm and cool, telling me I am happy and having a great time.

I walk onstage, where Messmer puts a microphone to my lips.

“What’s your name?” the voice is still cool but inviting.

“Lea.”

“Like the princess?”

“Yes, but not spelled the same.”

“And those are your friends?” he points.

“Yes.”

“Okay, Lea, have a seat.”

The usher nods to a chair behind me, and I join several others.

“When I count to three, you will all close your eyes and sit comfortably in your chairs until I call your names.  One, two…”

My eyes are already closed, my head is tilting down.

“…three.”

I slump in my chair. This is like a dream: reality is distorted yet I feel in control. I am comfortable, like the voice told me I am. Even though I am fully aware of the audience, they seem to be a part of my dream; I am not embarrassed to be in front of them. I can ignore them if I want. I can get up and leave if I want. Like watching a horror movie, I stay to see how this will end. The voice makes me feel safe.

I sit comfortably, aware of what is going on and, when I am not included, the suggestions don’t affect me. I sit with my eyes closed and listen.

The voice has convinced a girl that the number seven no longer exists. When she counts, she skips it. When she adds three and four, she has no answer. When she counts her fingers, she is astonished and confused to find out she has eleven.

“Lea, join me onstage.” I like the way the voice says my name, it is as if we’re friends.

The next part of the show includes us acting out a scene from the Lucky Luke comics. We each have a role and the voice gives instructions: “Lea, you are Luke’s girlfriend. You are sitting in a saloon, drinking a beer. You haven’t seen Luke in months, and you will greet him passionately when he arrives.”

It doesn’t take any more convincing for me to believe this than for the previous woman to forget the number seven.

“On the count of three, you will begin the scene. One, two, three!”

We come to life in unison as though we’ve rehearsed it a hundred times. I blow the suds off my invisible mug of beer. A moment later, I hear the hooves of a horse. The spotlight is in my eyes, so I can’t see who it is. Then I recognize him. It’s Luke! I see him on his horse as he rides from the back of the room. He’s here at last and I can finally be with him, but he’s riding so slowly, I ache for him.

My hand shoots up, trying to get his attention. I call out to him, “Lu-uuuke!”

At long last, Luke reaches the stage. Climbing down from his horse, he races towards me with arms extended and lips puckered for a kiss. I hesitate. That little voice in my head is still there. She’s resting with her feet up on a coffee table while the voice onstage does most of the work.  When Luke approaches, my little voice kicks her feet off the table and comes to the forefront. Yeah, that’s not happening, she says. I nod to her then hug Luke. There is no passionate greeting, as the voice instructed, because this is Luke, not my husband. I still know who I am and, although I am Luke’s girlfriend, I will not cheat on my husband. I find this confusing but shrug it off as the hypnotist explains to the audience that I will not go against my moral judgement.

The scene continues, there is a showdown outside the saloon. Luke and one of the Dalton brothers face each other. The voice says the spotlight is the blazing sun; I wipe sweat off my brow and grab the base of my skirt (although I am wearing jeans) to fan my legs.  They draw their guns and I hide behind my chair. I duck, afraid to see what might happen, but I peek anyways because that’s my Luke. I want to run to him, but if I get in the way, I’ll get shot. The gun pops, and Luke crumples to the floor.

I run out from behind the chair, and rush to his limp body. Kneeling beside him, I scream, “Luke! No!” tears blurring my vision.

When the voice tells us to do the fight scene again, but backwards, I wipe my eyes and repeat, “Luke!  No!” I stand up and walk backwards, duck behind my chair to hide my eyes, and look up again. I fan my skirt and wipe away sweat.

When the voice tells us to do it again in slow motion, I remember my every move. This time when Luke is shot, I stretch out my arms and legs in a pantomime of panic as I run to him. When Luke falls, I hear my own voice, deeper than usual, echo in the room, “Luuuuuuuuuuuke!  Noooooooooo!” I hear my friends laughing. When I look towards them, I see my husband has his head in his palm and his sister’s mouth is open. They must also be in shock that Luke is dead after I’ve been waiting so long to see him.

The scene is over on the count of one, two, three. We freeze.

“Well done, everyone,” the voice tells us, “You may go back to your seats onstage.”

We follow his suggestion.

“You are not embarrassed. You are feeling good and happy and comfortable.”

Thank goodness.

“Next, you are all going to work together in a rock band. You will each have your instrument to play. Lea, on the count of three, you will stand up and join me. One, two, three.”

I get up to play the bass. I don’t just want to play a bass guitar, I want the big bass, so that’s what I conceive in front of me.

“On the count of three, the music will begin, and you will each play your instrument.  One, two…”

I spin my bass as I have seen musicians do.

“…three!”

Jet’s “Are You Gonna be my Girl” plays. The singer is lip-syncing to it but so am I because this song rocks. We are on fire.

As the song ends, the voice introduces each of us to the audience once more. “And on bass, ladies and gentlemen, is Miss Lea Beddia!”

I spin my bass appreciatively and hold my right hand up, two middle fingers down. Rock and roll! The audience cheers.

When the second act is over, the voice reminds us again that we feel great. He counts backwards from three and we snap out of it. The evening is done.

Until this experience more than ten years ago, I always thought of hypnosis as a mere magic show illusion. Being onstage with Messmer made me realize that although there may be things I cannot control, I can manage how they affect me. I did not panic when the vines restrained me, because the voice made me feel confident. In a strange and unexpected way, experiencing hypnosis gave me self-assurance.

When I told my sister about the show, she said, “I guess you have a weak mind.”

Normally, this would upset me, but my husband corrected her. “You have an open mind, Lea. Where most people would shut off any possibility of something unconventional like hypnosis, your mind is open to learning. That’s not a weakness.”

Three years ago, while I was pregnant with my third child, I decided to use self-hypnosis during birthing to help manage my pain and stress. I had an epidural, but I wanted to go further, to see if I could control how the pain affected me. During my previous deliveries, the epidural had a minimal effect and I was on the edge of panic by the time my boys were born. I felt my stress had a lot to do with it. There are not enough hats in the world to tip to mothers who go through childbirth without an epidural, but I didn’t want to go through it again. I wanted and needed to be in control. I researched tactics for self-hypnosis. With practice, I was able to get myself in the right state of mind. My trigger was a simple touch to my abdomen and a one, two, three. 

The book I read suggested making a playlist of songs to help me relax. Much like Peter Pan needs a happy thought to fly, I used songs triggering serene memories to get me through contractions.

When my pain became more intense, I requested the epidural, but had to wait for the anesthesiologist. Listening to my playlist, a live version of Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love” began. The rhythmic waltz tuned out everything else for me. For about an hour, while my contractions persisted, I used that rhythm to breathe. Cohen’s voice, like a pendulum, veiled the discomfort so it was dim and far away.

When the nurses wheeled me to the anesthesiologist, my mind and my muscles were relaxed, just like when I sat onstage at Messmer’s show. By the time I saw the anesthesiologist, my body was open to receiving the pain relief.  Moments after the injection, I felt warm, easing into a gentle wakefulness, index finger resting on my abdomen. It was as if I was in a room with the door closed. I heard voices on the outside, but everything was muffled.

I was calm and, twenty minutes after I hit ten centimeters dilation, my daughter was born.

Hypnosis has become synonymous with control. On occasion, my anxiety is much like the vines growing from my wrists, weighing me down. I don’t always have the voice to free me, so I had to create my own method. Had I never considered self-hypnosis to manage my pain, I would not have learned to adapt these techniques to cope with my stress and anxiety.

It is a part of my coping system, giving me confidence to tell my anxiety to take a hike. I use it to get through crowds, elevators, boat rides, awkward family gatherings, messy diaper changes in public places, and parallel parking. I keep “La-da, La-da, la-da, La-da, Dance Me to the End of Love” on repeat in my mind. I tell myself, Count to three and breathe. One, two, three, and go. It seems simple for the magic spell to work: I needed an open mindset and a ticket to see a hypnotist. I was embarrassed after that show many years ago, but I’m glad I kept the spell.

 

LEA BEDDIA was born in Montreal and now lives near Joliette, Quebec, where she’s been a high school English teacher for fifteen years. Her passion for literature has bred into a passion for writing. She studied Education at McGill Uniersity, and is currently completing a Creative Writing certificate at Concordia University. She enjoys all forms of writing, especially literature for young adults, and children. She aspires to have her young adult manuscript published. When she is not teaching or writing, she and her husband care for their three children. She spends her free time reading anything from Shakespeare to Stephen King, usually with a warm cup of tea, or a slice of her mom’s homemade pizza! Find her on Facebook @LeaBeddiaWriter and on her website: http://www.leabeddia.com.

Copyright © 2019 by Lea Beddia. All rights reserved.

‘Never Born to Run’ by Hunter P. Thompson

Fiction, Short Stories
Never Born to Run
Illustration by Andres Garzon

 

I love my family–don’t get me wrong. They’re great and all and I know how much they do for me…. I just wish I had my freedom.

Being seventeen years old is not at all like it is in the movies. I don’t have a car; I can’t even drive for crying out loud! I can’t leave the house because it appears my life is so important to everyone else. My parents ask me every single detail about my day: Where are you going? Who are you going to be with? Are they good students? When are you going to be back? It’s all just so annoying. I want to have a life like all the other teenagers in the world. They get to hang out with friends and ride in the back of trucks while I sit inside bored to death. I want to take an epic day off school like Ferris Bueller. I want to go van surfing like in Teen Wolf. I want to go to an awesome party like in Risky Business. Why can’t life be easier?

“Jan, dinner!” Mom calls from downstairs, breaking my train of thought.

I exit my room and, on the way down, my eye catches the family portraits. Mom, Dad, my sister and, me. Now really, what I hate most about my sister being away for college is having every single dinner conversation being centered on me. Like, if we’re going to do that, let’s make it fun and talk about Back to the Future. But no, we have to talk about college crap and grades, and whatever else my parents think teenagers should be talking about. It always ends up the same way–with me in tears.

I walk into the kitchen and sit down at the dinner table. Mom puts the plate of food down right in front of me–chicken and vegetables. A dreadful meal for the dreadful conversation that’s yet to come. I dig my fork into the mushy vegetables as she sits down in her chair.

“So, are you going to tell your father your marks?”

“I got a B- on my biology exam,” I say quietly, staring at my dad across the table. My mother cuts me off.

“Just tell him the final marks,” she says.

“I finished with a C+ in English, a C+ in biology, an A+ in gym and a B in marketing.”

“Oh well you didn’t get a B in English, so I guess you’re going to summer school then,” my dad says as he cuts into his chicken.

“But you said I had to get a B on just the summative.”

“No, a B in the class.” He says as he leans down for a bite.

“I could have sworn you said a B on the summative.”

“A B in the class. You’re going to summer school!”

“No! I’m not going!” I slam my hand on the table and watch as the cutlery jumps.

“Fine. But if you don’t go to summer school, you can forget about getting your license.”

“That’s the only thing I want in life right now!”

“Well you have no one to blame but yourself,” Mom says jumping into the conversation. “You didn’t do the work and you got caught lying, so now you have to pay the consequences.”

“But that’s not true!”

“Don’t lie.”

“But you don’t understand! Ugh!” I throw my hands in there air out of anger. “You’re ruining my life!”

And just like that, I run out of the kitchen and head straight upstairs to my room. I feel the tears start to run down my face. I mean, a C+ isn’t even that bad in the grand scheme of things. I’ve seen movie characters get C+’s all the time. Besides the point though, you see, my sister got a D- in math last year, and you know how they reacted? Nothing. That’s not even the worst thing. Last year she got caught plagiarizing and my parents didn’t go all gung-ho on her either. Like seriously, they really didn’t have to make it that obvious that she’s their favourite. God.

I decide to get up and take my suitcase out of the closet. I throw what I can in the bag, including my clothes and my laptop. You never know when movies will be useful! Let’s just hope the bus transportation system has Wi-Fi.

I open up my window, toss my bag down, and begin the climb down the water pipe. Once I reach the ground, I grab my stuff and walk off down the dark street. The bus stop isn’t that far away; I’m just hoping there’s a bus that comes at this time of night. The walk isn’t too long though. Right now, I’m just glad that Mom and Dad didn’t hear and come running out to get me.

I reach the bus stop and take a seat on the small bench next to an old man reading the paper. I mind my own business as the stop fills up with more and more people. My mind grows bored as the night moves on.

It’s around two am when the bus shows up. I take out the measly three dollars I have in my pocket and pay the driver, before going to take a seat in the back. Everyone seems to settle in, and we drive off.

My suitcase fills the empty seat next to me and I take out my laptop, popping my earbuds in as I open the screen. I’m just glad there’s a signal to help pass the time. I go onto one of my usual movie sites and start watching a rerun of The Breakfast Club. I feel a sort-of connection between myself and the characters. I mean, they’re trapped in detention and can’t escape. I sometimes feel like that at home.

As the night grows on, I feel my eyelids begin to grow heavy and the credits start to roll. Before I know it, the sun is rising, and the bus comes to a stop. I pack up my things and disembark. The cold morning air creeps up on me and the first thing I do is check my bag for my jacket, but I come up empty handed. I forgot it. How stupid of me.

My stomach growls, and I decide to walk into the old building directly in front of me. It turns out to be a dying soup kitchen. Must have been running since the Great Depression. I bet it doesn’t get much business nowadays. It’s all wood with a roof that looks like it would leak. There are long tables along the sides of the walls, and a few sitting in the middle. There are, however, no windows. The place is mostly empty except for a few scrawny people in tattered clothes. They give me a good stare but I ignore them and walk up to the counter. The worker puts down his newspaper and glares up at me.

“Um, can I have a bowl of soup?”

“We’re a soup kitchen. What do you think?”

He sighs, getting up from his chair to go over to the boiling pot of soup. He opens it, scooping some into an old wooden bowl. Then he throws in a spoon to go with it and pans it down the counter like someone in a fifty’s diner would do. Ignoring me, he takes his seat and goes back to his paper. I grab the bowl and sit by myself at one of the tables against the wall.

I stick the spoon into the gross looking bowl of liquified week-old cabbage. I got to give them some credit though, they’re here feeding poor people. And me. I decide to stir it around a bit, avoiding eating it despite the fact that I’m starving. Kind of like school, I don’t seem to care right now. Then, out of the corner of my eye, someone comes up and takes a seat next to me: an old man with brownish-grey hair wearing an old windbreaker jacket. He looks better than the rest of the soup citizens.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

“People need to eat, don’t they?” I continue to stare down at the gross slop in front of me.

“A suburb kid like you? Now, you should be in school.”

“Well I’m not now, am I?”

He sighs. “Where are your parents, kid?”

“Home.”

“Where you should be.”

“Well I’m fine here now, and it’s not important.”

He continues to glare down at me as he doesn’t take the hint that I don’t want to talk.

“So, I take it you ran away from home then?”

I squint my eyes at him. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“Then yeah, why do you ask?”

He seems to sit up straighter. “Why did you run away?”

“None of your business,” I snap.

“Why?” He asks again.

“Because I felt like it.”

“You felt like it?”

“I just wanted freedom, okay?”

“Well what do you mean you wanted freedom?”

Damn, does he have to question everything?

I turn towards him and sigh. “I wanted freedom but my parents wouldn’t give it to me. Now I’m on my own. I’m free. Get it?”

“What’s the problem with your parents?”

“That’s personal!” I exasperate much more than I really need to.

“I bet it is. Listen kid, I can’t help you if I don’t know the whole story.”

“I don’t need your help.”

I run my fingers along the dusty-wooden table as he continues to talk.

“Well you don’t seem to be helping yourself either by running away.”

“I just wish they’d let me have more fun, you know?”

He blinks. “What kind of fun?”

“You know. Go out, down-town and dance on a parade float! Go back in time! Ride on the back of cars!”

“You’re like what? Seventeen? No one does that.”

“The teenagers in Dazed and Confused stayed out all night at an awesome party!” I shout.

“That’s a movie.”

“So?”

“That’s fantasy. No one does that.” He says matter-of-factly.

“People do that all the time! Are you kidding me?”

“You watch way too many movies.”

Who cares? You see, it’s more like a drug. It draws out the miserableness of normal life. But I can tell he’s waiting for a response. Instead I just sip the crummy soup.

“I’m telling you kid, you’re not missing anything.” He says, finally.

“Well what did you do as a kid?” I look back up at him.

“I had a job. I worked.”

“No, I mean, what did you do for fun?”

“Well I hung out with some friends. Just talked, nothing special.” He shrugs his broad shoulders.

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You’re not really missing much.”

“Well my parents don’t even let me do that!”

“I’m sure they would let you.”

“You don’t know my parents.”

“Well what are they like?”

“If I want to go out, they ask me tons of questions. And I mean tons!”

“That’s expected.”

“What do you mean?” I prop up my chin with my elbow on the table, actually wanting to listen for once.

“Well they care about you, you know? They just want to know you’ll be safe.”

“I know other people who don’t get the third degree.”

“Well you should be glad you do. It shows how much your parents love you, and how much they care about you.”

“It’s a strange way of showing it.”

“You say you’re unlucky, you say you don’t have any freedom. Let me tell you, I think you’ve a very lucky girl.” He points his finger at me to get his point across.

“You do?”

“Sure. You’ve got a roof over your head, you’re fed every day, you’ve got clothes on your back. Most of all, you’ve got two parents that love you. You love them too, don’t you?”

“Well yeah, but-”

He cuts me off.

“There’s no but about it. You’re a hell of a lucky kid.”

“I want my freedom.” I take my hands away from the table and sit up straight.

“You still want freedom? I’m telling you, you don’t even know what freedom is. I mean, there are people in this world just struggling to make a buck. They should be in school, but here they are working hard to support their families.” His eyes do most of the talking as I see he’s beginning to lose some of his patience.

“You mean they can’t even watch movies?”

“Movies are nothing. You know what I see? You’re an extremely privileged kid and here you are being ungrateful.”

“That’s not true.” I cross my arms over my chest, somewhat annoyed.

“Like I said before—Someone like you doesn’t belong in a soup kitchen. You should be in school.”

I raise my voice a little too loud. “I don’t care about school! At dinner last night, my parents completely blew up at me for just a couple of bad grades!”

“They just want you to succeed.”

“Well they shouldn’t be so hard on me!” I throw my arms in the air.

I’m not getting anywhere here. I may as well be having this conversation with my parents.

“They’re hard on you because they care about you. They want you to be the best that you can be. If they weren’t as hard on you, you wouldn’t have the motivation, you see?”

I take in a breath. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe I have been a little selfish lately.”

“Well selfish isn’t the word I’d use, but you get it.”

“Well thanks uh, Mr.…”

“Dupé. Mr. Dupé.”

“Right.”

I shake his hand and get up from the old wooden chair. Not bothering to finish the bowl of soup, I grab my stuff and walk out of the deserted kitchen, going back to wait at the bus stop.

This time around, there’s not a lot of people here. Not even a few minutes into waiting when the bus arrives. I hang around for a second, digging through my bag to come up with some cash. Finally, I find three and a half dollars. I get on the bus and, pay the driver and head to the back again. This time I don’t feel like watching a movie. Mr. Dupé’s words repeat in my head. He’s right—I really do watch too many movies. What I really need to do is get my head out of the clouds and dive into reality.

As I glance out the window, I notice the stop from last night. I jump up from my chair and hop off, heading down the chilly street.

When I approach my house, I notice my parents’ cars in the driveway. They didn’t go to work today. I walk inside and there they are: standing together, waiting for me. I can tell my mom’s angry. She looks like she’s about to scold me and tell me I’m grounded or something. But before she has the chance I wrap my arms around her and my dad, pulling them close.

“I love you guys,” I say.

It takes a second or two, but eventually they hug me back.

My mom kisses the top of my forehead and whispers, “We love you, too.”

 

HUNTER P. THOMPSON  is a writer from Oakville. She has a huge passion for it and has been writing since she was a child. Hunter aspires to write screenplays in the future. Her work covers a variety of genres including comedy, drama, science-fiction and, horror.

Copyright © 2019 Hunter P. Thompson. All rights reserved.

‘Before I Confess’ by Ian Kent

Fiction, Short Stories

before i confess

Illustration by Andres Garzon

 

I confess it again and again. What does it look like to always come back to this same pew, this same church, staring ahead to the altar, but glancing at the confessional door, week after week, confessing the same thing, never changing? Is cyclical forgiveness still forgiveness? The woman beside me just smiled at me. Did I just sin again? At least I think she smiled at me. Her hair is tied up in a bunch at the back of her head, and her hands are resting on her knees. I know her. I’ve met her before—at that singing thing. God, I’m a shitty singer. Did I just sin again? For saying God like that? I went to the singing thing because I don’t know many Catholics, and I want to meet more of them. They were all there after Monday Mass, even the priest, which I wouldn’t have even gone to if I hadn’t had the need to confess right after paying that woman for, God, I don’t want to say it, even think it—it is too difficult to admit even to myself. It was last week, and it was sunny. Sitting on the beach felt good until I got tired. Now, I’m not tired. I’m nervous. I’m not staring at the altar anymore. I’m pretending to stare at the confessional door, but really, I’m staring at her.  I wish she’d let her hair down so that I could touch it. Did I just think that? Do I actually want to touch someone’s hair? Is that my fetish? Should I confess that? God, what does it matter? After what I’ve done, losing all that money in that place simply because she said so, that longer would be better, she’d do everything, but it wasn’t longer, it wasn’t better, it wasn’t everything. We couldn’t even finish because cops surrounded that barren house because someone was abusing some dog. With crack? Was I going to be arrested? Were my desires finally to be chained? I had to leave. I had to get to work. When I went outside that cop said make better life choices and I lied to him saying I just got them McDonalds and he wanted to know about the dog, and I didn’t know and I just left. God, I wanted to kiss her. I even paid her way more just for that, but she wouldn’t let me. She wouldn’t let me. I just want someone who will transact a kiss. Will I ever stop desiring that? Should I confess that never-ending desire? If the sin is every inch of you, do you confess your very being? The sin of inches. I can be funny sometimes. Actually, I can be funny a lot. Even cruel. Too cruel. That’s why I said what I said on the beach; I wanted to be funny. To show how funny I can be. But I ended up being cruel. Their reactions were probably the funniest thing about what happened. No one laughed, except for me and that other guy. Some of them gasped and some of them looked sad and that priest just went on and on about clichés and how they are important. Grounding truths. Cornerstones. She’s looking at me with those eyes, blue like the sky even though it’s raining today, and she laughs. Did she just laugh? It sounded like laughter, and I laugh… because that man from the beach who told that horrendous joke is right beside me staring past my eyes to the confessional door. I remove my hands from my knees and lightly brush my hair bun that I so delicately tied. I stare at the door too. That door is mesmerizing. It’s so polished that it shines. Or glints. There is a thin window at the top of it that tapers into a cone. Neither the Priest nor the confessor are in its view. It’s a soft laugh, so I’m not sure he hears it. I confess that my cheeks are red. They’re whispering. Should I confess that? It’s eavesdropping. That’s a venial sin. The confessional isn’t traditional. You sit right beside the Priest and you look him straight in the eye. Even as a Catholic woman, I’ve never been afraid to look them in the eye. I’ll just tell him the confessional needs better sound proofing. Father Samuel is in today, I think. We met when I hosted that pro-life workshop for the Catholic kids at the high school. His voice was so soft. It charmed me. He wanted me to do more talks. Perhaps even to the adult parishioners. Yes, maybe. Maybe I can do that. Am I nice? My friends say I am. They also say I’m driven. Ambitious. Can kindness and ambition go together? Or do they clash? Should I confess that? Must I always confess it? How many times? Seventy times seven? That sounds tiresome, so I lie to him, my boyfriend, my betrothed, instead. Is the secret a sin? I lie. I don’t love. I don’t. Am I the only one who sins? Have I been staring at that man beside me the whole time? He requested we sing Hallelujah at the beach, and we sang it. I think he liked that. Then that young woman said that cliché “Jesus loves us this much,” and she stretched out her arms as if she was on the cross, “and died.” And then that man who is now beside me on this pew made that joke. God, she didn’t have to say it. It doesn’t matter if it’s true, or if it’s only true on some level. I gripped the sand and groaned when she said it. I shouldn’t have done that. It probably encouraged him to say the joke. On the beach his hair seemed pristine, untouchable. Now among the beauty of the church, the iconography in the window of Jesus crumpled under the cross, his hair is so messy. I bet his house is as messy as his hair. Clothing on the floor. Dirty dishes in the sink. Dust everywhere. A house needs to be kept in order. I have to be comfortable within my living space. He’s cute and his eyes change colour. That’s fascinating, isn’t it? He’s looking at me too. I blink. I’m so tired, and I rub my forehead… like I’m thinking, but I’m not really thinking. I’m a priest and I’m just trying to listen. There’s two others waiting outside in the pews. I’m hidden from them and exposed to this man who confesses to me. I’ve heard this confession before and respond with worthless platitudes and maybe the parishioner feels better, maybe he feels forgiven. Maybe not. I should be hidden from him. It is easier to accept forgiveness from a mysterious voice. Should I renounce my priesthood? Should I confess that? How innocent is that thought? Is that the first time I’ve thought that? I’ve certainly felt it for a long time, but duty breeds you past the feeling. You hope that it’s just a cyclical occurrence of emotion, that it will go away. That you are happy, that you enjoy your work, that you find it fulfilling. Still, how innocent am I? Did someone just scream? I ignore the confessor and open the door. He’s shocked and stumbles over his words. I don’t care. Someone screamed. It’s…what’s her name? She has her hands on her lips. Anne? Anna? No, it’s not that short. But someone called her Anne, I swear. It’s something longer. Anastasia. No, that can’t be it. I’m close though. Oh, and that guy. The jokester. “Jesus only loves you this much?” he scorned after that woman said that wonderful cliché (yes wonderful!) while stretching out his arms maliciously, “That’s not that long. It’s not that far. Only that much love? He only loves you that much?” I understand it’s a tiresome cliché and everyone says it, but did he have to make a joke about the length of God’s stretched out arms? Clichés can be grounding truths that hold us up like a cornerstone. And yet, we still reject it. The image works on so many different levels, and not only plays with length as a mathematical concept, but plays with it metaphysically as well. Length going beyond itself: mathematically metaphysical. So, really, it’s not a cliché. Annalise! There we go. That’s her. She listens. She really listens. Maybe I should tell her. I’ve got to tell someone. I’m not sure I can tell another priest. I’ve told one already. He’s back in the confessional, was just confessing to me, everyone confessing to each other—who forgives? It won’t matter. Even if he hears it and jokes about it, it won’t matter.  Men are usually a bunch of contradictory ideals, and I think he knows that, so he’ll understand. After all, I’m the one who will forgive him. He has no reason not to forgive me. Do I still have that power? If I want to leave, have I already left? Has God already left me? I reach out my hand to Annalise but that malicious jokester beside her on the pew reaches for her hair as if to touch the tips that curl over her forehead. But, he does not touch. His fingers suspend in unbelief. “Oh lord I believe! Help my unbelief.” She grabs his fingers and propels them into the braided bun at the backside of her head. It’s a swirling temple. His fingers scrunch against it and he yelps. Their lips mangle into each other—I wouldn’t call it a kiss, but I’m not sure what I would call it. Should I leave the cloth? It’s a sucking and a crinkling. A nervous chewing. Their lips smother over their teeth then smash into their cheeks and slobber onto their chins. She pets his eyes. It’s grotesque. She screams again. He slides off the pew onto the floor. She makes sure her hair hasn’t fallen loose. Then, she rests her hands on her knees. I cross myself. “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.” Holy Ghost? Ghost? Who said that? I turn—

 

IAN KENT wrote, produced and directed the play “Abattoir Morning” for or; theatre (ortheatre.com). In India, Ian taught Shakespeare to Tibetan artists in exile and edited and contributed to Contact magazine. His poems have been published in Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, The Prairie Journal, Scrivener Creative Review, Rhubarb and Contemporary Verse 2. His fiction has appeared in The Prairie Journal. His non-fiction has appeared in Rhubarb.

Copyright © 2018 by Ian Kent. All rights reserved.

‘It’s a Match’ by Lea-Maraike Sambale

Art

screen shot 2019-01-03 at 11.05.22 pmscreen shot 2019-01-03 at 11.05.32 pm

 

LEA-MARAIKE SAMBALE is the winner of the nation wide literature competition of the Eckenroth Foundation, Germany (2006), and the young Literature-Forum Hesse/Thuringia, Germany (2008 and 2013). Her work has been featured in the anthology “Nagelprobe 25,” and “Nagelprobe 30.” After moving to Montreal in June 2018, she started to write her poems and texts in English and experimented in combining them with selected sounds.

Copyright © 2018 by Lea-Maraike Sambale. All rights reserved.

‘No Promises Required’ by Samuel Guest

Poetry

you do not have to promise me anything
our agreement has already been written
in the silt beyond the hills

high above the crags
the clouds are weaving together
the story of you and i

 

SAMUEL GUEST is a Jewish/Canadian author, poet, and educator. His poems “Wing Envy” and “Easy to Tell” have been featured in Half a Grapefruit Magazine. His book “The Radical Dreams” became available on Amazon back in April of 2018. He currently lives in Toronto, Ontario where he works four jobs.

Copyright © 2018 by Samuel Guest. All rights reserved.

‘Brown Paper Bag’ by Blake Patrick Swan

Fiction, Short Stories

brown paper bag

Illustration by Andres Garzon

 

The collective standing of forty civil servants in unison either signals lunch or end of day. Right now, it’s lunch. Today Jared is not among those rising. For him, lunch is no longer a moment of euphoria the way it is for his coworkers. 

Jared didn’t always dread lunch. A short while ago, he had stood with the rest of them, and had walked with swinging arms and a gum-revealing smile on his way to eat a lunch he had been thinking about for hours. Lunch had offered Jared the opportunity to step away from the penetrating blue light of his computer screen, to quiet his stomach, and to enjoy half an hour of oral stimulation. Nowadays, lunch only offers Jared a short break from the tedium of his cubicle. Nothing more. 

The problem began with a grocery store run-in with an old acquaintance, and the fair amount of shaming that followed due to the ground beef and chicken breasts that sat in the upper deck of his cart. The interaction only came to an end when Jared agreed to watch a Netflix documentary on the meat industry. And from the moment he got home and pressed play, things spiralled out of control. That night, all of the newly purchased meat in his fridge—save for the fried chicken he ate during the documentary—met the black plastic of a garbage bag. It didn’t stop there. Each night, he watched a new documentary. Each night, he emptied his cupboards a little more.

In a matter of weeks, Jared had watched every food-related, environment-related, or toxin-related documentary on Netflix. By the end of it, Jared hardly recognized his own life. 

Jared’s lunch served as a microcosm of the changes he had made. His lunches now contained very little. Partly because it’s tough to find organic, gluten-free, non-GMO, non-waste producing, sugar-less food, and partly because Jared’s new method of bringing his lunch to work drastically limited the amount of food he could bring. You see, in an effort to avoid any single-use packaging, as well as the toxins in reusable plastic, Jared had begun carrying his lunch to work in his bare hands. This made soup a difficult dish for him to bring, and he was forced to stop riding his bike in the mornings, not having mastered the no-hands turn. 

When Jared arrives at work in the morning, he empties his hands on his desk. And that is where his food sits in two little piles until lunch. Today those piles consist of carrot sticks—grown in his own garden—and a lump of pumpkin seeds, unsalted and unroasted. Scooping his lunch up into his hands, he joins his colleagues in the lunchroom. The lunchroom has begun to look the same each day he enters it. Everyone overcrowds the round tables, and people are pressed together uncomfortably, knee to knee, and their garbage takes up each square inch of table surface. But every day, the same table, appropriately sized for four, remains empty, with only one chair left beside it. 

Jared isn’t naïve or oblivious. He knows that the daily empty table is no coincidence. He knows that the others have become tired of his judgmental and didactic conversations. That they’ve grown sick of his glaring eye watching their chicken wings and Styrofoam takeout containers and salivating mouths. He knows that they all just want to enjoy their lunch in peace. 

But today is different. Today the lunchroom dynamics are altered just slightly because of a new hire. And coming into the lunchroom late, she sees the table occupied by a single person as the obvious choice. She takes an empty chair away from a neighbouring table and slides it beside Jared’s. 

“May I sit?” she asks.

Jared is caught off guard, and after he acknowledges that someone is, in fact, willing to sit with him, he responds: “of course!”

She places her brown paper bag down on the table, and she eyes Jared’s dry carrots and wet seeds. “Looks like you’re almost done here anyway,” she says with a smile.

Jared cracks into a carrot stick, and close-mouth smiles back. 

Jared’s guest unfolds her brown paper bag and relieves it of its contents. He watches closely with a curious eye. First comes a granola bar wrapped in shiny, metallic plastic. A Wonder Bread sandwich inside a plastic sandwich bag comes next. And lastly, she takes out a yogurt cup. 

Jared stares with contempt at the dairy product packaged in a single-use plastic cup. So much wrong in such a tiny cup, he thinks. Misremembered stats run rampant through his mind. 

Jared continues his watch as she pulls the sandwich slightly out of the bag, grips the plastic on either side, and bites eagerly into the bread. She chews and swallows, and Jared thinks he sees a smile while she does so. Then, as if she’s just remembered something, she blurts out: “I’m Carley, by the way.”

Jared manufactures a polite smile and responds: “I’m Jared.”

“Nice to meet you, Jared,” Carley says cheerfully before she bites into her sandwich again. 

Jared attempts to return his attention back to his own lunch, alternating between carrot sticks and pumpkin seeds. He still hasn’t gotten used to the pumpkin seeds, and he finds them tough to chew. Their presence in his mouth seems never-ending, like a stick of gum. Every few minutes he needs to get up to stick his mouth under the tap in the lunchroom sink to wash things down. Jared’s hunger grows as his piles of food shrink. 

It’s either his own hunger he can focus on, or the unethical food being consumed across from him. His mind chooses the latter. Watching and thinking about all that is wrong with what she is doing, the urge to inform Carley of her near-sighted decisions grows within Jared, like the fruit fly population around his compost pile. She needs to know. How can he not tell her? How can he stand by and let her be ignorant to so much? But if he does say something, he risks driving her off. He risks returning to an empty table the next day. 

Maybe he can fight off the urge. Maybe he can let her enjoy her food with a smile, and he can enjoy sitting next to that smile. 

Jared manages to stay quiet. He holds his thoughts in like he did his bowel movements during the first few weeks of his diet change. He watches her peel open the top of her yogurt. He bites his inner cheek, and he sees her look around the table with confusion. An audible, oh! followed by a hand back in the brown paper bag. What more does she have? he wonders. And that’s when it happens. She takes out a plastic spoon, and Jared can’t hold back any longer.

His thoughts flow from his mind like a surge after the breaking of a dam. They show up in his mouth as words, and he can’t swallow them. Out they come. 

“You know, there’s a great documentary about plastic use in everyday life that you should watch. It’s really quite informative,” Jared says with both a level of enthusiasm and a feeling of superiority that he cannot hide. 

Carley takes the spoon out of her mouth. “Oh, really? I’d totally watch that.”

“Great!” Jared quickly replies, surprised by her enthusiastic response. “I’ll write down the name of the film for you.”

“Perfect!”

Jared sits back in his chair. The internal struggle has passed. He no longer has to worry about informing her about the issues related to the plastic she’s using. But his body is still tense as he watches Carley finish her yogurt. His eyes are no longer on the spoon, but on what it holds. 

“You know, there’s also another really good one on dairy consumption.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe I’ll have to watch that one as well.”

“Definitely!”

Carley finishes the last of her meal and starts to pack up. Jared can’t help himself. “Oh, and one about non-organic oats.”

Carley takes a little longer to respond this time, but as she stands up from the table, and places her chair back where she found it, she says: “Ok, I’ll have to get the titles from you some time. Nice meeting you.”

“I’ll send you an email,” Jared calls out as she’s walking away.

Jared doesn’t hear a response, but he doesn’t need one. Getting up from the table he washes his hands at the sink, takes a quick sip from the running water, and dries his dripping hands on the front of his dress shirt. Scurrying to his cubicle with zeal, he opens his email and starts a new draft. He ignores the email address for now, fills in the subject field, MUST WATCH, and jumps to the body of the email. He sits there with a wet shirt stuck to his chest and a growling stomach, and he types out the list with vigour. 

The list goes well past three. 

 

BLAKE PATRICK SWAN is a writer from Sudbury, Ontario. He holds degrees in literature from St. Francis Xavier University and Lakehead University. Having recently graduated, he now occupies a sessional professor position at Cambrian College. He is currently  working on a collection of short stories that examine hypermasculinity in rural Canadian areas. 

Copyright © 2018 by Blake Patrick Swan. All rights reserved.