FANTASTIC TALES FFrom

North America’s Oldest Literary Magazine 123rd edition A Bishops University literary tradition since 1893 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Credits ...... v Acknowledgements...... vi Dedication ...... vii A Myth About Humanity...... Giulia Xuereb 8 Stranded on Another Planet, I Come Across My Childhood Home...... JeffParent 9 Mrs Whitakers Werewolf...... Emily Baldwin 10 The Marine Biologist...... Giulia Xuereb 11 Newton’s Laws of Motion...... Kristy Bockus 12 True Love’s Kiss ...... Tina Golab 15 Any Given Tongue...... Jeff Parent19 Whip-poor-will...... Frank Willdig 20 Status Report...... Aqil Henry-Cotnam 21 Mud...... KatieManners 23 The Only Humans...... ConnorRichter 25 flivkite\\...... Matthew Duffy 27 Bean Nighe...... Emily Baldwin 31 Trouble...... ConnorRichter 34 Thursday...... Taryn Buskard 35 Spring Cleaning ...... Asha-Maria Bost 36 Repose...... Laura Alessandrini 37 One Bad Day Deserves Another...... Nick Walling 39 ©2016 The Mitre Division Across the Street...... Stephanie Martin 45 123rd edition String Theory...... Andie Warner46 Book design Katie Manners Couple’s Practice...... KatieManners 48 Cover and illustrations Katie Manners The Space Between Us...... AndieWarner 49 Photography Junru Bian Hippie Flipping...... Joe Flannery51 Printed by Escape...... Nicole Gavreau56 Marquis Imprimeur Hello, Goodbye...... AshleyShinder 59 2700, rue Rachel est Sad Man ...... Emily Baldwin 63 Montreal, QC H2H 1S7 The Perfect Space...... Froy Choi (Natchasiri) 65 The Line Not Taken...... Samantha Maliszewski 67 Funded by the Bishops University Students' Representative Council Thersites Speaks His Mind...... Frank Willdig 68 Red...... Charlotte Peters 71 CREDITS A Heart Chained by Fear...... Kuna Zero 72 Our Scars Are Deeper Than They Appear...... Editor . Samantha Maliszewski 73 Katie Manners Brush ...... Jeff Parent 74 Care Bears: The Show Must Go On ...... Aggie Veale 75 Book Design Heavy Metal...... Charles Manners 77 Katie Manners An Attempt at Mercy...... Helen Holmes 82 Dying is Art...... Melissa Mezzacappa 85 Illustrations and Cover Design The Narcissus Incident...... Yann Audin 91 Katie Manners Pillars Never Cease...... Helen Holmes 95 I Will Not March...... Madeleine Hession 97 Photography Striae...... Denise St. Pierre 98 Junru Bian Fallow...... Frank Willdig 101 Buckeye...... Jeff Parent 102 Models Lost Soul’s Song...... Katharine Mussellam 105 Laura Alessandrini Throw Ourselves...... Connor Richter 110 Gwenyth Clark A City Bike in the Townships...... Rosemin Nathoo 111 Natalie Demmon Dillie the dog Aislinn Fisher Daniel Ganze Guillaume Lirette Gelinas Patrick Grogan Emily Knight Anetta Krapivnitskaya Jennie Kravitz Marianne Lassonde Em Liatsis Emma McGreeghan Pierre-luc Pepin Charlotte Peters Chris Rae Kyle Roberts

v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To all the contributors who blindly sent their work into the abyss, only to have it return bound in a book. Without you, the Mitre might have been called the Might Not.

The SRC, for funding what would otherwise be an In Design file buried in a laptop—or far less copies of a much shorter book.

Kristy Bockus, for deeming me worthy to take on this project that quickly became my most valuable Bishops experience.

Jeff Parent, for egging me on like the wise Facebook Messenger The 123"‘ edition of the Mitre is dedicated to my mum and dad prophet that he is. who always told me to do what I love— Junru Bian, my photographer, for taking on nine last-minute pho toshoots and being an absolute star. I promise our next project and here I am. will be all smiles.

The BU drama department, for responding so enthusiastically to my frantic call for models, and for volunteering not only cos tumes, makeup skills, and time, but your positive energy on long shoot days. Your collaboration has truly impacted this year’s Mitre.

Sam Burns, for sharing a living space with me over the course of this project and listening to me whine for days on end without abandoning our lease or me.

Zach Shron, for convincing me to apply in the first place and for believing in me from 700 km away. I love you. THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

A MYTH ABOUT HUMANITY STRANDED ON ANOTHER PLANET. Giulia Xuereb I COME ACROSS MY CHILDHOOD HOME Jeff Parent

First thing stands out? She pulls a penny from my ear. A penny. Flips it, eyes it, Wide as a tractor wheel, shrugs, thin as the air, “Always tails.” hung on the wall over the bed She licks it, bites it, and Queenside out. announces, She whispers coarse secrets “No school today, Slugger. and nursery stories Weatherman says solar flares The first shooting star marked that smell like crayons again.” the birth of the first child on or tar. The roof of my mouth tastes of copper. Earth. Her name was Lucia. Meanwhile, When the first star shot across two magpies, the sky the smallest particles of mad-eyed and crooked dust fell onto the Earth. They with cartoon whimsy, remained there for days, slowly pluck dark coins moving closer to each other, from a rough hole morphing into one small hu­ in the upturned gut man shape. Then the form was of a piggy bank. carried by the tide, taken fur­ Swallow each one whole ther into the deep, dark ocean, with cash register sounds. kept afloat by the power of the waves. One day the sea grew I hear a box of cereal, calm and still. The human form, walk down through the shakes, no longer afloat, sank deep into find a family of raccoons in the kitchen the water. Upon reaching the “Visiting from the attic,” says one, bottom of the ocean the form takes a hard swig from the milk bottle. started to move. Its heart be­ Others, small and scraggly, gan to beat and slowly it rose pass around the free toy. to the surface once more. As it “Watch this,” says another emerged, Humanity drew its tugs my sleeve. first breath. She’s wearing a tiara.

8 9 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

MRS WHITAKER’S WEREWOLF THE MARINE BIOLOGIST Emily Baldwin Giulia Xuereb

On Thursday evening Mrs Whitaker makes sure all the doors of It was during the late hours of the morning, I had been enjoy­ the house are locked, and changes into her least favourite night­ ing the sunlight in Stanley Park for just over an hour when the gown. (She doesn’t rip her clothes, not anymore, but it doesn’t hurt sound of hurried footsteps caught my attention. A skinny, middle- to be cautious.) She considers sleeping in the bed this time, but aged man was running right behind me holding a large bundle to decides against it, as she has no desire to buy new sheets. Instead, his chest. He had coarse, tanned skin, and wore a black jumper she gathers her collection of rummage sale pillows and blankets and a panicked expression on his weather-beaten face. His mop of and lays them out in the bathtub before gingerly climbing in. She grizzled grey hair, accompanied by eyes that darted from bench to sleeps through the change, her paws twitching in memory of some bench, gave him the appearance of an eccentric scientist who had long-ago chase. decided to go for a walk halfway through an experiment. He told me later that he was a marine biologist. As he came to a halt in front of me I realised that the bundle he was carrying contained a squirming baby.

10 11 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

NEWTON'S LAWS OF MOTION Ace was never supposed to make sense. It shouldn’t have be part of the equation. It didn’t been possible. The numbers Kristy Bockus make any sense. His mass did didn’t add up. But then again, not equate to the weight of the perhaps it was me, tiny and words that hung heavy in the air fragile, beneath all those lay­ Newtons first law: an object either remains at after escaping chapped, bleed­ ers that allowed him to become rest or continues to move at a constant velocity ing lips and settling into my an External. He stripped me of until acted on by an External force. mind. It was a weight that bore my words. The acceleration of down on me every day, drooping it all snatched the air from my my shoulders a little more with lungs and made it impossible for me to cover my nakedness. I never expected Ace to be an our minds filled with questions each additional word, buckling There was no time to think. He External. I should have known, that burned so bright they kept my knees as I forced one foot looking back at it now. His eyes us tossing and turning even af­ in front of the other. No one thrust me forward at a speed I should have given him away ter the sky had gone dark. At­ could know the truth behind knew not how to control. It was exhilarating. It was new. I let from the start. There was a spark tempts were made, of course, the weight I carried. I thought in them that burned so bright to regain State Rest—medita it made me safe; surely, there him take my hand and pull me I was blind to everything else tion, yoga, drugs—but human would never be anything strong forward, the wind painting my when I looked at him. The ciga­ ity had become too restless. So enough to counter it. Ace didn’t cheeks red. We ran together. rette that perched between his we continued to move, thinking lips faded into the background; of the paths we’d journey down, the smell of smoke shifted, no yet always alert to the speed of Newtons third law: for every action, there is an longer making my nose twitch the ones before us. Some peo­ equal and opposite reaction. but encouraged a deep inhale ple never get hit by an Exter­ instead. I thought I was finally nal, others by many. I thought ______at State Constant, that it was I’d had my share, but then Ace time to join everyone else that came. I tried to steer clear of The thing is, Ace may be my had settled. I was such a fool. him—honest, I did. The thing External, but it turns out that I wasn’t at Rest. No one is re­ about Externals is that they’re I’m also his. ally at Rest anymore, not since persistent. He forced me to stop.

Newtons second law: the power of an Exter - nal force is calculated by the mass of an object multiplied by acceleration: F=ma.

______

12 13 By TINA GOLAB

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away there lived a prin cess so beautiful that one would fall in love with her at the men­ tion of her name. Her hair was as black as the night, her eyes as green as the sea, and her skin so white that snow seemed dark in compari­ son. The princess was so exquisite, both inside and out, that it was no surprise when a prince from a large, neighbouring kingdom began to court her. The princess’ father, the king, was no doubt overjoyed at hav­ ing such a promising young man show interest in his daugh­ ter. In the hopes that the prince and the princess would fall in love, the king threw a royal ball in their honour every night for two years. After two years of sweeping the princess off her feet, the prince finally got down on one knee and asked his beloved if she would marry him. Naturally she said yes! The entire kingdom rejoiced

15 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES for the union of the prince and dom, where their seat of power vanished into the night, cack­ love. princess. would be. The prince declared ling all the way for her success­ The prince travelled many Everyone from both king­ that she could bring as many ful revenge on the prince. miles and faced many beasts. doms was invited to the wed­ belongings to the castle as she The prince, of course, was He slew wise dragons and du­ ding celebration; the young and wished. But the princess insist­ devastated. He begged and eled with magnificent unicorns. old, rich and poor, law-abiding ed that all she needed was her pleaded for anyone to revive his He killed gruesome griffins and citizens and criminals, every­ faithful dog, who never left her wife. But no one could help. felled grotesque giants, fished one wanted to celebrate. side. Everything else she could He refused to have the prin­ for melodic mermaids, and That is, all but one. live without because she would cess buried. He was certain trapped terrible trolls. But all of As in every fairy tale there be with her beloved prince. that one day his wife would be them perished. has to be a wicked witch and On the day the princess saved. In the meantime, she It was only after he’d faced this one is no exception. moved into the castle, the was laid out on her bed, where a leprechaun in an exhausting The wicked witch Pertiernyu, prince held a ball in her honour. her husband visited every day, battle of wits that he discovered beautiful to behold on the out As was custom, everyone was while her dog sat and never left how to save his wife. side, but foul and evil within, invited. It was such a glorious her side. The leprechaun, begging for fancied the prince and had celebration that the party lasted Then, one stormy night, a mercy, for he could no lon­ made her feelings known to three days and three nights. merchant came stumbling into ger bear the sharp mind of the him. She promised to give him On the third night, after the castle, asking for food, wine, prince, told him that in order to anything he wanted, whenever hours of dancing, the princess and a room for the night while save the princess she must re­ he wanted. But the prince could sat down for a drink to replen she waited for the storm to pass. ceive true love’s kiss. see the wickedness that lied ish her thirst. In return for this kindness, the Of course! How could he within and so he spurned her Pertiernyu, disguised as an merchant would help the prince have been so stupid? and turned her away. old hag, offered the princess bring his wife back to life. The prince raced back to his Furious at the princes' rejec a glass of rare wine in honour The prince eagerly obliged, palace, and ran up the steps to tion, Pertiernyu vowed to get of her marriage, a wine so rare and after the woman had had his wife’s bedside. He looked her revenge on him. that there was only enough for her fill she told the prince what into her eyes, leaned in, and But how? one cup. he must do. kissed her softly on the lips. When the prince and the The princess thanked Perti First the prince must travel He pulled back, waiting to princess were officially wed, ernyu and drank the wine ea to distant lands and battle fear­ see his wife’s eyes flicker open Pertiernyu silently rejoiced for gerly, for she was parched. some creatures. The creature ... but nothing happened. she had found her revenge. She Little did the princess know, that did not die once defeated He leaned in and kissed the would act when the princess however, that the wine was poi­ would hold the answer to sav­ princess again . . . and again, moved into the princes palace. soned! ing the princess. and again, and again. But noth­ The princess, who had been As soon as the princess fin The prince left immediately ing happened. thrilled when the prince pro­ ished the wine, she fell to the in search of such a being, leav­ The prince held his head in posed, now moved to his king­ floor . . . dead! And Pertiernyu ing the faithful dog to guard his his hands, fighting back tears

16 17 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

as he faced the fact that his wife close to her with tears rolling ANY GIVEN TONGUE was truly gone. down her cheeks, thanking him Jeff Parent The princess’ ever-loyal dog for saving her, telling him that howled as the prince cried. The he was, and always would be, dog then turned to his mistress, her true love. and with one paw on the bed, The prince sat there, baffled he nudged her Limp hand, and by what had just happened. Here’s an example of a tongue, licked it. He said to the princess that tagged and boxed, All of a sudden, the prin­ he thought he was her true love. with all the other tongues, cess’ fingers began to twitch. The princess smiled and told each in various states of freshness Soon she was lifting her arm her prince that she did love or trauma to scratch the dog’s head. She him, but she simply loved her or decay. opened her eyes and threw her­ dog more. The latter, of course, occurs with the really old ones; self at the dog, hugging him ancient Egyptian, Babylonian, that sort of thing. So this one, recently acquired by donation is still shiny, slightly tacky to the touch, and a white scar on the tip where its former owner bit through it when, aged eleven, he fell off his bike.

They’re developing techniques using lasers and digital rendering to recreate the last word spoken by any given tongue. It’s very advanced and precision is key but there’s a fringe notion— wildly unscientific— the lab techs talk about over drinks. By night, they say, when the lab is dark and still, to catch the faint click of a tongue’s last word all you need is a good ear, but that’s unlikely. We keep those at a lab upstate.

18 19 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

WHIP-POOR-WILL STATUS REPORT Frank Willdig Aqil Henry-Cotnam

That night we heard the whip-poor-will It’s been at least twelve years The day finally came when I sing just beyond our window sill, since I returned home to Echo- had to ship out for my first mis­ clearly in the moonlit night, 163, a godforsaken cyborg plan sion, stationed on none other close to us but out of sight. et. than Echo. The PRA was hold In the early 30th century, ing the planet’s central control, ‘Twas something ancient that we heard, humans exiled cyborgs from exactly the area where our mis articulate without a word, Earth, forcing them to settle sion was focused. These regions speaking its arboreal tongue, on Echo, in the Andromeda were rampant with rebel vio­ a voice I heard when I was young. Galaxy. Around the same time, lence, severely lacked food and Earth began decaying as a result clean water, and were becoming And tar from any urban sprawl, of thousands of years of reck­ overpopulated. beyond the traffics droning call less endangerment to the hu­ Seeing Echo like this was we knew this moment would be rare, mans’ only home. This left them hard for me. It was nothing like grasped one day it would not be there. scrambling to find a new home­ the planet I had left behind. land. Eventually they found the Landmarks I recalled as beau And will our children hear it still, perfect planet, Polaris, also lo­ tiful were now rubble, slowly that music of the whip-poor-will? cated in Andromeda. decaying as if from an ancient Simultaneously a rebel group time. We set up our base camp called the PRA (Planetary Rev in what used to be an early edu­ olutionary Alliance) staged a cation centre. It was nearly sun­ coup against the central gov down, and we were planning ernment on Echo and led the our initiative for the next morn­ planet into a civil war. Mil­ ing. We were ordered to rest up lions of cyborgs were forced to for the big day ahead of us. flee, becoming refugees of the I was up before dawn that galaxy. With the outbreaks of morning. The mission would be violence and need for humani­ a long one. The cyborgs of Echo tarian aid, positions opened up had suffered so much already, in the Galactic Guard, or the the least we could do was re­ Peacekeepers as they’re known. store some order and help these I decided to enlist to make use poor, pathetic beings. of my talents. That day my mission was to

20 21 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

exterminate the unruly cy­ MUD borgs of Echo-163. It may seem ethically unsound Katie Manners that I had to terminate my fellow cyborgs, but that was When I was seven, I made a pact with spit and palms and my mission. At the end of BLOW OUT SALE the day, my sworn duty was hurried nods that I would let to keep the peace across nothing but mud fill my lungs. 90% OFF the universe, no matter I was driven by fear, like ev­ what. Although one thing eryone was—the fear of infec I learned in all my years tion and of alienation. In my When I was nine, Skid dis­ of peacekeeping was that dreams, I would sneeze and appeared. Not right before my there is no such thing as wake up bathed in sweat. I bur eyes, but in my mind. Like an peace, only compliance. ied deeper and deeper to escape air bubble pop, he was suddenly the dust that floated above, but gone from me. I felt the mud still I dreamt of its bodily intru­ dredge up around him before sion. he was surrendered to the dust. I was alone. My fears realized, I When I was eight, I found searched my palm for the spit of slips of paper scrawled in sin­ aged agreements, but I saw only ister juices. No clumps or clods dirt. Dried. ate away at the script and I stud­ ied the associated pulp intently. When I was ten, they con­ At once I felt a sharp pang be­ sumed my arm—those minus tween my eyes that pulsed fear cule souls that float through throughout my being. And so the mud with no need to dig. I did what I was taught to do: Cursed, some call them. Formed bury the flesh beneath the mud; in the air. An alien occurrence if the alien cannot be destroyed, that, every so often, brings it must be suppressed. I dove about calamity. The dirt that ap­ so deep with crushed paper peared a year before had spread in hand that at once I figured from palm to wrist and from myself lost, but such thoughts wrist to shoulder. Mud could screamed blasphemy—mud is not cleanse the wound, though existence, beyond which is only I tried. Instead dirt blossomed death. The paper read: until flesh gave way to bone.

22 23 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

I sensed ink-scrawled paper THE ONLY HUMANS floating through the mud, Connor Richter seemingly untouched after all these years—once a warning, The Beetle bears a mark: now a reminder. I was punished a sinful stain, for my curiosity, and justly so. that twists its form until the beast called Only Human is born. I am eleven, and I can feel Its shell is struck, dust on my skin. The harsh­ a splinter splits est breeze licks fingertips that to show the skin, soft flesh, and bone. sprout from the mud. One arm The fetal figure fights and squirms, consumed, the other exposed. it frees itself, but from sunlight burns. No palms left for pacts. No fin­ So it drapes itself in a dim disguise, gers left to burrow. The mud has to hide the world from its own dark savagery. a way of cleansing its infections, These clever clothes tell the lie that its weakness comes from its and I am one of them. I suck in own mortality. my surroundings and my lungs grow heavy, but the swirling The Beetle never used to cry. dust about my fingers does not Pain drops would bead and fall away against its hollow slow. My skin is chapped, my exoskeleton. knuckles cracked. And then all But now a conflict of wonder and suffering consumes the beasts at once, I am wrenched from called Only Human— the mud. it clogs its eyes like an intestine filled with gelatine. To satiate this lonely contrast I am not twelve, and I am not it contracts a voice— breathing. but only to declare itself prophetic. How pathetic. I am not thirteen, and I am not afraid. Now Only Human roams across this world. It creates to destroy. I am not seven, and I am not And hates, to love. buried deep in the mud. With all the noise its tools make, the beast’s own head is heavy with an ache. A tumour grows, and now the only thought the beast can make, is that

24 25 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

it knows ... FLIVKITET\ it knows ... \ it knows ... Matthew Duffy But despite this ignorant cancer, something unexpected came ... the crash haks over. from the Only Humans’ spark of purity a stone formed within its heart. It hatched itself and from this crude matter, gave life to a most luminous being. This formless creature rose out of the Only Human carcass. le furie le feirew fure fuee; ...... asra tella burbnrnrnr \ \ ash Free from the physical, la chrieer.z trapped as raped.en. blush sang sanfg.. zcoeeeeaRT/// it danced and intertwined with the infinite. zirconia.

The other Only Humans were still trapped upon the ground. They all stood watching... splashshkl kenn gz. snag sherez. peotuyez. couree. heartrt. like a ghost caught in the headlights. courueuwual.;l toouyurueuw

hold oupp.. long flung

splash nous heartt. ceurt.tt. youtyut. wa\lkkkend et. anddd, i hold., blush tu..\ vous. soold it outllonhg.

Ouvrir

dropp it down....

splash en take

press it genst.. the heart, thatzhours. pealze we. weep

pour our\z.zzzzzzzzzzzzzzalwatz

26 27 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES let the blood drag lost my drea, re\ozn fightout. and wpill etalzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz burrninggg everre flooorl. is fulufoooded hearrt ecerrxfgvc // effergy. burnt evere. dear near, suooonz. \z \flivkitet.// flicker it. flick it. oveture.s hark,, harked elz dieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez fares to the sky., and else welll.. co,me totooOowz n’{to thenjborne #soak then, so. ceep tooo welll. bloding spiill zspilll spalsih it., as crie, niu sddreweae,,, as a heart, coiuruieiuewiuee whipe. the streatixz show foure borne letz rifle.over tour.on the blood dropes the knife

{too well}heven is drawn,. i keep it weelllz but death., by fortrm,. splited. too. and call ontreat.s done ce-les bassmentz/ tears for ever flashes, rose, motions part, the signs, brinking, long, slams the dolly, matchup in resen. fireeeee. fire...... burnhe mopthing notngin// morphing not.flung. bloof hanuge

28 29 BEAN NIGHE

By EMILY BALDWIN

Laura poked her head into Susans room. “Well, I’m out. Don’t wait up, okay?” Susan narrowed her eyes. “That is my Nirvana T-shirt. You been going through my drawers again?” Laura bit her lip and opened her eyes wide. “No, would I do a thing like that?” Susan harrumphed. “You left it on the floor in my bedroom,” said Laura. “That makes it mine. Besides, I look hella cute and I don’t have time to change my outfit before leav­ ing. Bye!” She waved cheerily and was out the apartment door before Susan could shout, “Be careful!” Susan waited until Laura was gone before cracking a smile. Even though that was Susan’s fa­ vourite T-shirt (she had ripped up the back herself and stuck it together with safety pins), Lau­ ra had looked cute. Susan couldn’t say as much for herself. All her favourite clothes were dirty and she was

31 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

lounging around in a pair of treatment as the yellow T-shirt “Three for three, fair’s fair. out of the clothes?” old sweats. Glaring at the pile of before it. Salt was rubbed into Ask.” “They’ve got to look nice dirty laundry behind the door, the stains, and into the wash Susan gulped as another po­ and clean when they meet their she thought to herself, “Well it went. The smell was getting liceman’s shirt was pulled out of maker, the poor dears.” I may as well do it while I’m stronger now, and the old wom­ the hamper, this time with only This opened up more ques­ thinking of it.” an drew out her next item: a po­ a trace of blood on the collar. tions than it answered, but Su­ liceman’s uniform. Susan’s heart “Who do those clothes be san was determined to make The laundry room downstairs jumped in her chest. This time, long to?” her last question count. “What was empty except for an old there was no pretending. There “Lots of people, dearie. This happened to all these people?” woman in a ratty green sweat­ were three red splotches on the one belongs to a young man “Not what has happened, shirt. Susan didn’t recognize shirt: shoulder, gut, and heart. named Toby. Bit of a trouble what will happen.” The old her, but then again there were The old woman must have no maker, always sticks up for his woman sighed. “Such a waste, forty apartments in her build­ ticed, because she smiled over brother, though. This one be such a waste. There’s a battle ing and the old woman didn’t at Susan. longs to Officer Blake. Nice, coming, and not one fought by look like she got out much. “Not to worry, duckie, not to honest man, if prone to panic soldiers.” There was a faint smell com­ worry,” she said. “Yours isn’t in when in a tight spot. And this Susan shuddered. She stared ing from her laundry basket. here. Tell me, will you be going one...” at her washing machine, try­ Susan turned up her nose and to the protest today?” Susan stopped her as she held ing to will it to go faster. She no picked the farthest machine. As Susan shook her head no. up the sundress. longer wanted to be in the same she was shoving her underwear “All for the best, I suppose. “Thank you.” She took a deep room as this woman. The smell into the washer, she noticed Anyone you know going?” breath to collect her thoughts. of blood was almost choking the old woman take out a jar of Susan nodded her head yes. “Why are you washing blood her now, and she stopped her salt. Watching out of the corner “And why not you, love?” machine and shoved the wet of her eye, she saw the woman “Not really my style. I’ve nev­ clothes back into her hamper. carefully, almost reverently, re­ er been political.” She could always come back move a yellow T-shirt from her The old woman smiled un later, once the old woman was hamper. She rubbed salt around derstandingly. “True, true. Best gone. the collar and placed it in the to stay neutral in these affairs, I She rushed past the old wom­ wash. think.” She pulled out a tiny sun an, trying not to meet her eyes, Probably got wine stains on dress, checked it for stains, and and so didn’t see the next item it, Susan thought to herself, but placed it in the wash unsalted. pulled out of the bloody ham­ continued her spying. “I’ve got to wash them all, just per. Next the old woman reached the same. Now,” she fixed Susan It was a Nirvana T-shirt, into her hamper, and drew out with a wry grin, “you get to ask ripped up the back and held to­ a wife-beater with a red stain all me your questions.” gether with safety pins. down the front. It got the same “What?”

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TROUBLE THURSDAY Connor Richter Taryn Buskard

The trouble with trouble is that we searched I puked on a church ... and then trouble found us, I puked on a church, and you trouble bound us, called it poetic- trouble ground us into ground meat when trouble became a thing to separate the ground from our feet ironic, isn’t it? and then the word “trouble” lost its meaning Creating the evidence of a sin, instead of confessing to one? because the meaning was fleeting and its departure caused our blood to stop speaking, And while I’m busy confessing to things our emptiness became grieving, I’ll admit that I hate chocolate cake, our perspective started vanishing, but I rather like you before totally leaving— now we’re just dry heaving. ... and I’m not sure why.

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SPRING CLEANING I feel like Undesirable No. 1, wanted for murder but my crime Asha-Maria Bost is how fast my body is inflating.

I stand in front of the mirror I yank my pants up like a tug of war, holding my thigh in my fingers jiggling my legs into each pant leg until trying to catch the fat in one hand. I’ve eased enough in to close the front button.

Red lines snake I could buy bigger jeans like a maze expanding from my hips but then I would have to stand to cover my inner thighs. in the mirror all over again. My inner thigh is dotted in thumbprint-like valleys and black scars from shaving.

I calculate the fat I would have to shear off in order to get the thigh gap.

One inch, two inches, maybe ten— almost my full leg should be thinned— but where are my bones?

There’s a skinny girl inside wearing short shorts running, without feeling the thunder of thighs.

She’s fed up with being stuck in this vessel, fed up with clogged arteries, sugar highs, and cheap tequila.

I feel like a washed up whale, helpless as the water dries out, REPOSE hating the image in the mirror. Laura Alessandrini

36 37 ONE BAD DAY DESERVES ANOTHER

By NICK WALLING

“Gormley! Get in here right now!” Chuck really—really— didn’t want to get in there. But he was going to. Because he had to. His daughter was being difficult this morning and refused to go to school. It wasn’t the first time Chuck had been late for work, but this was the latest he’d ever been. He could sense Higgins losing his patience bit by bit, day after day. What could he do? Family came first. It wasn’t his fault Higgins fell apart. He hated the way the man said his name. He pronounced it as if there as an extra “o” in the middle. Goormley. It was sub tle, but it was enough. Chuck took a minute to prepare him self for the verbal beat down he was about to receive and his eyes lingered on the picture he had taped to his cubicle wall. Whether she knew it or not, Lizzy got him through each and every day. “Gormley! My office. Now!” Chuck started to get up, but smacked his knee on the re-

39 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES tractable tray that held his key­ and—what happened to your left Higgins’ office. Sighs oc­ you get in your father’s car this board. The jolt toppled his large pants?” cupied his mouth more fre­ instant.” coffee off the table and onto his “I’m sorry sir. I spilled coffee quently than words these days. “No!” pants. Chuck sighed. It hurt. He on them.” He trudged back to his desk “Well, I’ll just have to gather looked up at the picture of Lizzy. “That figures. Did you finish and sat down in his uncomfort­ up Elisa, Monique, and An­ There was nothing he could do the reports at least?” able chair and did nothing. He nabelle and tell them you can’t about this now. He wiped up “No sir, I still have—” was especially good at doing play today. Where are they? On what he could and made his “I don’t care what you still nothing. The constant buzz of your bed?” way through rows upon rows of have to do. Get it done. Anti co-workers and artificial lights He was never good at pun­ cubicles, each housing a person stop coming in late.” annoyed him. The faint, musky ishment. He couldn’t bear to see he didn’t know—didn’t want to “My daughter—” smell of humanity barely dilut­ his daughter unhappy, especial­ know. He doubted they even “Spare me the sob story, ed by the office’s air circulation ly because of him. Jen was good counted as people while they Gormley. You start at 9 a.m., system annoyed him. He looked at it, though. “Tough love” she were here. Drones. Slaves. They you be here at 9 a.m. End of dis at Lizzy. He sighed, turned on called it. She could get a little managed to imbue their blank cussion. Get back to work.” his computer and pulled up the harsh and abrasive sometimes, cubicle spaces with bits of them­ “Sir, I—“ reports. but she was a softy at heart. He selves—pictures, posters, toys, “Look Gormley, I don’t want *** also knew she didn’t exactly ap­ mugs, funny mouse pads, to-do to be the asshole, but you’ve preciate the fact that she had to lists, and god knows what other forced my hand. You can’t keep Lizzy looked up at her dad be the bad guy all the time. superficial crap they decided coming in late like this. Every­ with eyes as wet as she could “Nononono wait!” represented who they are—but one has families. Everyone has make them. "Yes?” nobody was really happy in a problems. Deal with it like ev “I don’t want to go to school!” Lizzy looked up at her moth­ place like this. Chuck knew he eryone else does. We’re running “Why not? Why don’t you er and wiped her sniffling nose. wasn’t different. Wasn’t special. a business here.” want to go to school?” “The kids at school make fun But he chose to pretend he was “My daughter was bawling “I just don’t! I don’t like it!” of me because of my name.” anyway. her eyes out! What could I do! “I don’t like work either. But I “Elizabeth is a beautiful name, “Gormley!” I needed to get her to school!” go anyway.” honey.” Chuck opened the door to “Number one rule of running “So?” “Not ‘Lizzy’! ‘Gormley’! 'Gorm Higgins’ office just as the fi­ a business, Gormley: some­ “I’m going to be late, Lizzy. ley''. It’s ugly!” nal syllables left the bastards one is going to be unhappy. It Please just get in the car.” Jen knelt down next to Lizzy mouth. doesn’t matter what you do or “No.” and hugged her. She looked at “Finally. What’s your prob­ what you decide. Oh! You’re Chuck sighed. He heard the Chuck from over their daugh lem, Gormley? You arrive to having a good day? Guaranteed front door of his house open ter’s shoulder. That look hurt work an hour late, you take someone else is having a bad and turned to see Jen march Chuck, but not because it was your sweet-ass time getting to one because of it. Guaranteed.” out. She didn’t look happy. accusatory—it wasn’t. Jen felt my office when you’re called Chuck let loose a sigh and “Elizabeth Belinda Gormley, bad for Chuck. His legacy, his

40 41 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

name, was causing his daughter “I’ll tell you more about it af a doll. Just like the ones Lizzy story he told her about blue grief. This was the first time his ter school. Okay? played with. It was dirty though. Irish babies. But this would daughter mentioned anything “Okay...” Damp with the filth of the city. brighten her day. Maybe this about being bullied because of “So you’ll go?” Hair that used to be yellow had would make her feel a little her name. His name. It wasn’t “I guess .. turned brown. A face, that was better. For a while at least. He fair. He didn’t want Jen to feel Jen chimed in. once beautiful in its falsehood started again towards the park bad for him, to acknowledge “Great. I’ll let the girls know.” and endearing in its simplic­ ing complex and disappeared the effect the stupidity of twen­ Jen gave Lizzy another hug ity had a crack snaking down around the corner a block away. ty-five first graders had on him. and helped her into the car. the crown of her forehead and *** Jen held her daughter at arm’s “Thanks, Jen.” across the bridge of her nose, length. “Anytime, Gormley" splitting her right cheek in two. “I’m sure I lost her here, “Gormley is a great name. She gave him a kiss and A tattered rag wrapped around Papa!” Did you know that it comes walked back inside to get ready her tiny body was all that was “On 23rd?” from Ireland?” for work. He wished he’d stop left of the dress. “Yes! There was a dog and he “No.. hearing his last name so often. Chuck bent down to pick her barked at me and I got scared Chuck knelt down beside his It made him feel better when up. and ran away and I dropped wife and daughter. she said it though, like her voice “What’s your name?” Becky but I didn’t notice until I “Yup. It means 'blue spear somehow purified what was No response. He felt stupid got really, really, really far!” man’. Isn’t that cool?” otherwise sullied daily by Hig­ for half-expecting one. “Okay, okay. Calm down, I “Why were they blue, Dad­ gins and seven year-olds. “Probably something pretty know.” dy?” John and Maggie had walked *** ... like ... ‘Jenean?’ “Well, up there in Ireland, the He turned the doll over in his up and down 23rd Street three water’s all funny, and it some­ Chuck got out of the office at hands. Apart from the crack in times that night and there was times causes Irish babies to be 9:35 p.m. and stepped out onto the face and the tattered dress, born blue. The clans would 23rd Street, four and half hours it was in decent condition. She gather up all the blue babies and later than he was supposed to. could be fixed. Lizzy liked play­ train them to be warriors, and The night was young, but far ing doctor. She got that from that’s where we come from.” from beautiful. He could feel her mother. “Why aren’t we blue then?” the electricity and water wait­ “Well, let’s get you some place “Umm . , . because . . . our ing to douse the city in light warm where we can get you water is normal?” and sound. He walked towards fixed up. I think I know a little This was getting hard. the parking complex a couple girl who’d love to meet you.” “Ah, well why—” of blocks away from the office He was excited. He knew the Jen gave Chuck a look that building. He noticed something kids at Lizzy’s school wouldn’t said he should stop what he was laying near a storm drain about care where her name came doing and get to work. twenty feet in front him. It was from. Or even about the dumb

42 43 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES no doll to be found. It was get­ Chuck paused in front of his car ting late, almost 10:00 p.m. on the roof of the parking ga­ “I don’t think she’s here any­ rage. He had heard something. more.” A name, maybe? He wasn’t “She has to be!” sure. Peggy? Becky? There it “It’s getting late. I’ll get you was again. Becky. He walked to a new doll on the weekend, the edge of the parking garage okay?” and looked down towards 23rd “I want Becky! Becky! Where Street. There was a man and a are you?” girl. It looked like they were “Don’t shout like that! Come looking for something. on, let’s go.” “Not until we find Becky!” “Not until we find Becky!” Chuck looked down in his Maggie sat down on the hands at Becky. He looked at his sidewalk with a storm drain car and then at the father and between her feet and pouted. daughter on 23rd. Does one bad Tears welled up in her eyes. day deserve another? Thunder John moved onto the street and roared and echoed across the crouched in front of his daugh­ city as it started to rain. Chuck ter. turned away from the ledge and “Someone might have taken got into his black sedan. her. We don’t know where she As he pulled out of the park­ is. We’ve been out here for a ing garage, the rain started long time. Let’s go home.” pouring in earnest. He could see Thunder pealed through the the sombre duo huddled under sky. Rain drops sporadically- an umbrella, walking towards tapped on their heads. Maggie him. He turned left, in their di­ looked up at her father and a rection, and drove passed them. tear rolled down the right side In his rear-view mirror he could DIVISION ACROSS THE STREET of her face. John opened his see them turn around and watch Stephanie Martin arms and his daughter fell into as he sped down the street. Hig them. gins’ words echoed in his head Maggie sobbed. like the thunder did in the city. John sighed. Chuck sighed. ***

44 45 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

STRING THEORY Andie Warner

You said You said What’s up butterscotch-i-scream baby girl? Well, I don’t know, I said maybe I messed up when I was seven I feel trapped—I’m in a bubble and I left the dog outside at night. that I blew with everyone I know. Or when I hit my sister with a bat. You said Just kidding. Well why dontcha leave? I didn’t do that. I said I can’t. I said You said I miss you, you know? Free will is encoded in your DNA— You said a billion, million paths I know. of maybe’s and what if s, But maybe we can figure out a choice soon in a strand that could that makes this work somehow. go on a round trip to the sun I said and still come visit me. Lets just build a time machine I said and don’t leave the dog out this time. Bullshit. You can’t be free if your choices are written down. We aren’t free at all. If we were, you would be here.

46 47 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

COUPLE’S PRACTICE THE SPACE BETWEEN US Katie Manners Andie Warner

To whom it may concern,

Take me.

Please find attached: I woke up to nudes over toast. your hand on my back, sheets on the floor, Spread with fingers soused in sweat my hair in your mouth, and jam. the space between us— how small is small before it’s nothing? Disguise the aftertaste with mouthfuls of crumbs, Someone’s in the kitchen, and bee-lined consoles they can’t see screaming dial-up tones. your pants in the corner, my shirt right-side in, Quick! your fingers tapping a rhythm on my snare bum— what’s left to say? Find me, My hand finds yours to silence the quiet. before the tooth in the dryer Three squeezes mean (dried) three words. finds its way into my open mouth.

We can’t let go now, not even for an itch. I wonder if you can see the space between us.

48 49 All the leaves are brown, the sky, grey. As I leave my apart ment block, I realize that nature has chameleoned to the streets, the Magnacar waste built up in the gutters, the monochrome of the pedestrians. Like much of my generation, waving signs saying hooray for peace, love, and acid, I had been afraid 1984 would look like it did. But it hadn’t mattered, our hopes for change and green pastures. The bombs in the east had dropped, this time on the jungles of Viet nam instead of the cities of Japan , and the technology of the New American Conglomerate had blossomed like the flowers we painted on our Volkswagens. As massive computer banks passed the mantle of Washing­ ton, Lincoln, and Roosevelt, as floating cars lifted from garage blocks, as citizenship tests were exchanged for employment ap­ titude surveys, America gave up on dancing barefoot in the park and settled into their TV room ■ chairs. Eventually, even I put down my marijuana and guitar

51 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

and accepted the NAC’s Com thick pencil, an entry about a that had crept into my life, and pies who prescribed love for an passionex pills and employee blissful night I had spent with how it had been replaced before ill earth, and were in two atomic conduct booklet, and with that some California girl I met in my eyes, yet somehow without blasts, told that Earth’s inhabit­ exchange, I was okay. an airport, heady memories my knowledge, by a trite obses­ ants wanted nothing to do with Do I love my job? I’m okay of writing those words wafted sion with things that held no it. It is a feeling that to me ap­ with it. Do I love my apartment about me like sweet perfume. tangible meaning to me. As the proximates loneliness. It is this block? Its okay. Do I love my That night became a blur as I next morning’s dishwater dawn feeling that permeates every wife? I’m okay with her. I’m okay found myself engrossed in the shone on my TV room, chairs, inch of me as I skulk along with life. I’m okay with death. words of my former self. I had and non-portable set pushed the narrow sidewalk this dull What I do love is my impressive wanted to be a journalist, had away to make room for a collage morning. I have stopped taking employee rank, my weekly pay- been a devotee of the sublime­ of images and artifacts from my the white pills labeled Compas- check, and my portable televi ly bizarre Hunter Thompson, flower years, I felt another emo­ sionex that the NAC has pre sion. I’ve felt this way for some and my memoirs proved re­ tion resurrected from the past: scribed to each and every one time now, without really realiz­ freshing reading. Then I came Loneliness. of their employees. I suffered ing that I did. Last week I found to my furious scribblings on It is strange to feel as though violent cramps in my body and something in my storage unit the page dated with that fate you are the only being who cares inexplicable nail biting epi­ that made me feel like I haven’t ful, atomic date of September about something you know to sodes that first day without the felt since Walter Cronkite sol 12, 1972, beginning with: “The be essential, but which others pill. I’m still chewing my nails, emnly removed his spectacles rat bastards really did it! The have forgotten. It is the feeling of now bloody, as I walk down the and told the American public pigs nuked Nam!” Washed in doctors whose cures have been street and stumble as a painful (still known as citizens in those a sense of nostalgia and loss, I rejected, of scientists whose cramp stabs my calf. On the days) that two atomic bombs felt the same way I had penning theories are denied. It was the second day without my medi had been dropped on key Viet those words. I remembered, Je­ feeling of all us longhaired hip­ cation I didn’t leave my house Cong targets with significant sus how could I have forgotten, enemy and civilian casualties rage, rage of injustice. In that alike. That day I felt that wrong moment, almost enjoying the had been done, I felt anger, rage. rush of such intense emotion, Last Saturday, when I opened that rage moved from the past the wooden chest from my col­ to the present. I felt rage that lege days that held so many the vibrant, exciting times of memories and snapshots of how my youth had been torn away life had been back then, I came from me as I grew up, as the across a leather-bound volume world grew up around me, grew with Journal embossed on the into something homogenizing, front. As I opened it and read sedated, and boring. I began to the first entry of triumphant, perceive the absence of emotion

52 53 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

for work as a pervading sense of getically returned the kiss and away when I tried to affection­ I enter the monolithic re­ helplessness and deep depres­ after reaching into the bedside ately nestle my head between gional NAC office block, cough sion combined forces with my table, positioned herself on top her and the miniature screen. ing from the exhaust of a pass withdrawal to keep me in bed. of me. Before we began I whis Numbing joy left me staring, ing Magnacar. I walk across the I slept constantly, swimming in pered, “I love you.” She only open-mouthed, at the perfectly limestone floor, beneath the dreams full of more emotion smiled lewdly as she chewed an formed French omelette I had brilliantly gold logo of the NAC and colour than coherence. By Eroticex stimulant pill and dug for the first time coaxed away inlaid in the high ceiling, and the fourth day without my dose her fingers into my hair. from the Teflon of my electric enter the same elevator I have of Compassionex, I awoke and After we made love, I quickly pan, unblemished by brown used every week for the last five felt the depressions absence in went to wash up in the bath overcooked patches. Insane years. I hate them all: the floor, stantly. I turned to see my wife’s room. I came back to my wife animal rage had me screaming the ceiling, and the elevator. I face highlighted in grey by a nude, cross legged with her por vulgarities after my shocked ride the dull, steel box to my of­ ray of sun from the window. In table TV resting on one thigh, neighbour whose late night, fice’s level and cross the massive that moment, regarding her fa­ cackling as the newsmen told computerized game sessions ocean of beige cubicles until I miliar face, I was overcome by her about the latest celebrity had made me lose countless reach my boss’ corner room. I a feeling that tugged butterflies scandal. hours of sleep in the past year. I walk in, kick over his desk, and through my stomach, a feeling During that fourth day and felt absolutely paralyzed by fear throw my work kit in his face. I had once known when lovely those following I was shocked as I tried to justify another sick His nose lets go a gush of bright Cecilia said that she would go with an overload of emotional day as my boss bellowed about red. with me to the senior prom. I stimuli. Deep abandonment me jeopardizing my future with “You’re doing the devil’s kissed my wife to wake her and sent me sulking to the kitchen his prestigious department. work,” I tell him, my face calm, took her in my arms. She ener after my wife had pushed me As I sat on the sofa staring at a not betraying the storm of rage sketchbook an old friend had beneath. Then I smile with gifted to me, enthralled by the mirth as he stammers in ab­ strange feelings charcoal figures solute confusion and uselessly delivered, that sense of loneli­ tries not to bleed on his suit. I ness suddenly settled over me. laugh the entire way to the el­ Was I the only man in this vast evator. I laugh all the way down city who remembered what to the lobby. I laugh tears from real emotions felt like? Was I my eyes until the two NAC se the only one who cared that curity men tackle me and shove somehow these emotions had a white hypodermic needle, been quietly removed from our bearing a familiar brand name, minds and replaced with pills into my arm. Then I don’t laugh and the perfect white of the anymore. I don’t need to. newscaster’s smile? 54 55 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

ESCAPE tattoo of the water beating in my head. If only I could Nicole Gavreau find a door, then everything would stop. I open my eyes: darkness. have been the source, the wind’s What seems to be hours Blacker than ebony on velvet. direction changes, making me a later, my legs tired and my I hold my hand mere centi­ weathervane. throat parched, I collapse to metres from my face; I cannot Then water begins to drip, a the ground. see it. I reach out and feel to my leak in the ceiling; it seems odd I close my eyes, but can I walk, sides, behind me, stretching as for such a room to have plumb­ not sleep: the drips disrupt far as I can to the front: no walls. ing. my rest. the drip, trickle, and voice I close my eyes and tilt my The sound of water meeting Needing reprieve, I cover follow me, surround me, and head up, no warmth on my stone, a surprisingly loud plunk, my ears. The sound of drip­ wrap me in a cocoon so tight skin, no sun. I open my eyes begins to annoy me. In despera­ ping continues. I fear I will suffocate. and search above: no stars. tion to stop the sound I move I lie awake, my eyes be At last I fall to the ground. Have I gone blind? under the drip, for it seems as ginning to burn—I cannot Damp. The puddle must I have to leave wherever I am, though hours have passed and blink. have grown, extending over and find out what’s wrong. Am I my thirst overwhelms all but Time passes, and I am no the impossible room. I reach blind or trapped in a room with my annoyance. more rested, but still I rise out to each side: one hand no light? Surely nature cannot The water tastes of iron, al­ again and resume my quest. finds the trickle, the other find parallel in this blackness. most like blood. I notice that one drip has the drip. What had once Once more reaching out, I In an instant the drip in­ grown into a steady stream, been paces apart were now a begin to take small steps, hop­ creases its pace, and another a puddle surely forming on mere arm span away. ing to find a wall. After per­ drip joins the dissonance. the ground. The room closes in. I have haps ten paces, I feel something I scurry to the new drip, des­ A distant voice, just barely no energy, no will to wonder rough: stones. Could I be in a perate to cleanse my mouth of audible, permeates the room. why or to make a renewed cave? I reach up. The stone is the iron. I stick out my tongue, I have to find the source, my bid for escape. not continuous, telling me I am only to find salt. sure escape. Rescue. All hope is lost. The room indeed inside. But where might More water that I cannot No matter how much I is my world now. My prison; I find stone walls? Who built drink. concentrate, the voice is om­ my impossible prison. The them? Why was I within them? I abandon the second drip nipresent. A whisper I can­ prison of my mind. A wind begins to blow. No, and retreat to the wall. After five not trace, strange and dis­ it howls and nearly bowls me minutes of searching I know tant, yet familiar. over. I try walking into it; the something is wrong: the wall is I wander once more, source would bring exit. gone. walking what feels like an As I approach what must I change course, the constant eternity. No matter how far,

56 57 HELLO. GOODBYE

By ASHLEY SHINDER

Here I am, four years later. No change. I think. Twenty now. I aged—that’s a change. Still single. Cold—that’s an other change. That’s probably why I’m single. Cold . . . as . . . ice. Yup, that’s me: a cold, single twenty-year-old girl. I’m going to keep talking to myself. I need to keep talking to myself. Or else. Or else I’m going to think about it. Him. Or else I’m going to think about him. Shit, now I’m thinking about him. Think about something. Now. Think, think, think. Anything. An encounter with Nana- bush in Native American fic­ tion means that death is ap­ proaching. Buddhists believe in Nirvana. It means “perfect peace”, or something. They need to escape the cycle of death and rebirth. Hindus believe in rein­ carnation. The soul moves from one body to the next. Greek Or­ thodox believes in eternal life. So even after you go you’re not really gone. Muslims put their faith in Judgement Day. You go to Heaven or to Hell. Sucks. Sci-

59 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES entology—like that’s even a re “Meghan!” Her voice is thun­ deal with it differently.” ligion. Anyways, they “believe” derous. Impatient. that people are immortal spiri I won’t pick a fight. She’s an­ tual beings with multiple lives. gry today, too. I walk the hall­ The drive is not long. From So, when you die, you just move way from the TV room to her Dollard to Beaconsfield it takes to a new life. Catholics believe bedroom. Stare at the floor, roughly fifteen minutes. De that you have to repent for your don’t look at the walls. He redid pending on the route you take sins. Don’t atone for your mis­ these floors. Close your eyes time can vary. Go by St Charles demeanors and you won’t see and feel your way there. Boulevard and you’re bound to God in the afterlife. You are not “Mom? I heard you, I was in hit traffic at the light above the welcomed into the full glory of the living room.” overpass. Take Hymus Road Heaven. Uh, what else? What’s A sudden gasp escapes her and you’ll feel like you’re play another religion? Aren’t there lips as his favourite coffee mug ing bumper cars because of all like hundreds of religions in the meets the floor. the stop signs. Either way the world? Like maybe even thou­ “Calisse de tabernac,” she drive is about fifteen minutes. I sands? spits as she storms out of her never actually timed it. I should. Wait, why am I talking about bathroom. “I’m cleaning this The drive feels longer this time. death . . . and dying? Shit, now up and we’re leaving. Are you Anticipation, maybe. Maybe I’m I’m thinking about death. Shit, ready?” reluctant. I’m always reluctant. now I’m thinking about him. Mom blinks profusely. I sus The window is cold against the Okay. It’s okay. Remember what pect she is trying to hold back side of my forehead. I pull back works. Sit down. No, sit in your tears. I know her too well. because I think I’m getting brain spot. Lean back. Close your “Yeah. I’m ready.” freeze. Last night’s foundation eyes. Breath in. One ... two ... “Where’s your sister? Is she stains the glass. A foggy white three. And out... two ... three. coming?” ring wraps around the beige dot Well fuck, that didn’t work. You “You’re joking, right?” The then fades away. That’s weird. Is know, I don’t even believe in sarcasm is a big mistake. “She it always this cold in February? this religion stuff. Like, what’s does this on her own.” The silence in the car is loud. religion anyways? I don’t be­ My mom understands. She Mom focuses on the road ahead. lieve in any of these. I’m cold. does. It’s just—today. Today’s She took Hymus. I start fogging “Meg!” my mom calls from hard. up the window and draw smiley the bathroom that joins with “Well, it would be nice to do faces. Smiley faces—it’s an odd her bedroom. it as a family.” As the words es­ day to be doodling that. Wash it “Yeah?” I answer quickly. cape her mouth, she seems re­ off. I lean my head against the She’s not going to hear me. I pelled. Her lips twitch. Forming window again. It’s still cold. It know it. a slight grin, maybe. “We all freezes out the intensity of the

60 61 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

quiet. “Okay?” she asks. SAD MAN The quiet is actual quiet now. “Yeah...” I lie. Emily Baldwin Haunting. Still. Shit, I can’t deal with quiet. Think about some­ It’s been four years but the There was a sad man who sat room?” (I didn’t know.) thing. drive feels so routine. I know beside my bed. Sad Man liked to pretend “Did you know that two mil­ the cemetery well. Is that weird He is one of the first things I he wasn’t sad by telling me lion doilies are manufactured to know your way around a remember. Other kids’ imagi­ these things, but I knew better. every single day?” This is my cemetery? We pull in past the nary friends were much more He would smile, but the smile attempt at breaking the silence. rusty iron gates. The sign reads exciting. They had cowboys and would wither when it reached Nothing. “Beth Zion.” It looks like it’s col­ princesses and animals of every his eyes. Sometimes he cried “The length from your wrist lecting mold. That’s nice. Just description. But all I had was a little when he thought I was to your elbow is the size of your because the people here are my Sad Man, and he wasn’t ex­ sleeping, his fingers quickly foot!” I keep going. “If you dead doesn’t mean the upkeep citing at all. coming up to wipe away the spread your arms out width- has to die along with them. All he ever did was sit there, renegade teardrops. I let him wise, you can see how tall you We drive straight to the end and read his book (a different think I didn't notice. are from your middle finger to of the narrow road. We pass one each time, not that I could I didn’t know what he was your other middle finger! ... If rows upon rows of identical tell the difference. This was be­ sad about. I didn’t want to ask, you touch your tongue to your tombstones. Jewish people are fore I learned to read). Some­ in case thinking about it would pallet it stops a sneeze. Or, you so anal. You are literally given times he would hum snatches make him sadder. Instead I can press your thumb to the the choice between a charcoal of Gilbert & Sullivan to himself asked him to read to me, which palm of your hand.” grey and black tombstone. (I didn’t know what they were at he did. I never liked any of Nothing. Like death isn’t morbid enough the time. It was only later, when his books, though. They were “You know ice cream has like you have to emphasize it with I was 19 and saw the Pirates of grown-up, and therefore boring three ingredients. Cream, sugar a black stone. “Here lies John Penzance for the first time that and incomprehensible. and milk. Well I guess four if Doe, if you aren’t already heart I recognized the music as the Later, when I was old enough you include the flavours. Or five broken that he’s dead let me re songs my Sad Man would sing). to read, I mentioned one of actually if it’s something like inforce it by planting this really, And he would say weird things: those books to my mother, who Rocky Road that has brownies really black tombstone at the “I tried to smuggle some gin assumed I had found it lying and cookie dough. Sucks for head of his grave with the most into your room,” he said once, around somewhere and read it lactose intolerant people. Their cliche quote like ‘forever in our “but they caught me.” Or once, by myself. (Ten Little Indians, I fake ice cream must taste like hearts’, or some shit.” I hate this. think it was.) She, of course, as­ crap.” I hate this day. “Remember when your parents “We’re here.” My mom inter found out you were gay?” (I sumed I was a genius and was sorely disappointed when she rupts me. I think she’s thankful It’s just another hello, and an­ couldn’t.) And on one memo­ that she cut me off. I think I’m other goodbye. rable occasion, “How did you was proven wrong. thankful she cut me off. manage to blow up that hotel I stopped seeing Sad Man

62 63 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

when I was eight. anything up. THE PERFECT SPACE He appeared in my room It was as I was walking Froy Choi (Natchasiri) one night, just like all the other through the park that I saw him times, but this time he held my again. He was walking with a There is a girl trapped in a body offlesh and fluids. hand until I closed my eyes, and woman, and they were laughing Her clustered mind digs through remains pressed a kiss to my forehead, about something, and I met his of rusty lenses and horoscope cut-outs. and cried. eyes and smiled. While looking up, she presses on the walls I didn’t see him again. He smiled back, but there mapping constellations, I had others, after him. was confusion there. “Do I and drawing unconventional There was Nigel the giant rab­ know you?” he asked. “You look bit, and Lachesis the goddess incredibly familiar.” stellar shapes— five fire escapes, twelve underground exits. of Destiny, and the lizard girl. I looked at him. He was older And they were more exciting than I remembered. His hair Then comes a boy who soaks her in- than Sad Man, but they never was grey, and there were crow’s tiny cardiacs, seemed to be quite real. I grew feet around his eyes, but he was latching on closely, spilling truth of an 18-year-old. tired of them all, eventually. I happy. For the first time in my His well organized mind flashes through grew older, grew up. I acquired life, I saw him smile without a the epitome offreedom. real friends, and went to high hint of bitterness. He moves through her veins, and finally learns school, and college, and was “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve never the ins and outs of a maze never once tempted to blow seen you before in my life.” never meant for two. Soon he leaves her compass swaying, and her heart starts swinging back and forth between calm rain and monstrous floods.

Last Christmas by the fireplace, you and I learned about the three types: the platonic: rising intimacy, the erotic: two reckless magnets, lastly, the unconditional: selfless instinct. I felt it so suddenly, out of question, the grip of our cradling bodies, intertwined on a rocking chair, where your mother used to sit, resting her tired spine, heavy from carrying the little boy swimming in the warmth of an unfamiliar womb.

64 65 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

Our idea of love struck on a timeline of chaos, THE LINE NOT TAKEN colliding on tectonic mismatches, Samantha Maliszewski the crest and dips of a selfish graph, now only a passing storm of a miscalculated hindsight.

I wish you endless nights of twists and turns, the sweatiness of an open palm. I wish you a body to tread through thunders and a mind freed from clouded boundaries. Two lines diverged in a dirty station, I wish you eight hundred and forty-two laughs with the new souls And sorry I could not take both tracks you’ll lift. And be one traveler, amongst the crowd, I wish you four walls of a home, the quiet solitude of wet Sunday And looked down the blue line as far as I could mornings. To where it bent on the concrete overpass;

I wish you finally, the perfect space, that longs for us, a soiled Then took the yellow line, just as busy, ground to grow. And having perhaps the safer claim Si Because it was actually running, Though as for crowds travelling the line It has slowed it down about the same,

And both that morning equally squeaked On rails no maintenance worker checked. Oh, I marked the blue for another day! Yet knowing how failure leads on to failure I doubted if I should ever try again.

I shall be telling profs with a sigh Sometime hours and hours hence: Two lines diverged in a station, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference In arriving to my class on time.

Froy Choi (Natchasiri)

67 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

“Obey the commands of your betters,” they said, thersites speaks his mind though my rage and rants were just for those dead Frank Willdig who, in my mind’s eye, are lying there still, and were never quite sure why they were killed. By the shores of Ilium, I remain old and exiled on this desolate plain, Kudos and praise to the undeserving; the riotous, wooly-haired oaf of no worth, all booty and women to those self-serving now sits alone on this sacrificed earth sons of Atreus, whose lust and greed will always outweigh those humble in need. remembering the days not long ago when I rose from the ranks and shouted out, “No,” We were there to applaud the deeds of tools The first common man to take the worlds stage, and when the time came to die in pools I won’t be the last to shout out my rage. of blood from unsung and hapless men whose reward was never to breathe again. My scars bear witness to the will of kings, each welt a reminder of the stings No one remembers the youth who dies that fell on my back for speaking out believing in all those heroic lies and of being shamed by that cruel lout, of kings who’d kill their own daughters for gain, (as for a fair wind, Iphigenia was slain). Odysseus! The lying son of Laertes! Whose only goal in crossing these seas Now, even those heroes have turned to dust was to reap the glory and eternal fame their noble swords are nothing but rust. and ensure the bards would remember his name. Lord Elephenor, being first to fall now lies mouldering in Asphodel, Well, I remember, I remember them all, gathered around their long ships in thrall, and Ajax, driven completely insane how they stood like sheep by the wine-dark sea I see slaying sheep again and again; and cheered as that windbag humiliated me. the great Agamemnon, returning home was killed by his wife and is now just bone. Homer called me a babbling fool, the foul-mouthed brute who flaunted the rule And what of Aornos who died at my side? that kings were the only ones meant to be heard I sent his rings back to his grieving bride, and the grunts were never to utter a word. Arcos and Diomede, both farmers’ sons, no glory for those unfortunate ones.

68 69 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

Here, among the blind terrors of night RED the wounds of the dying were kept out of sight, Prince and chieftain, servant and slave, Charlotte Peters I am the only one free of the grave. The night tears and bleeds, bringing us blushing into day. Each morning we rose to bury our dead The scraped knees of fallen heroes, and rally the youths whod' stand in their stead; dying of courage, dying of love. no monuments left to those who fell, The anger, the futile: “Stop!” we ignored the wounded whod' never get well. Christmas and Communism separated only by the blood of covenant. No poet’s praise for their great virtues, Roses left on graves, sorrows soothed by dark wine, they silently served their chiefs, win or lose, love burns in corners, then roars up, no one noticed their families back home lights lakes, and how they were loved before dying alone. climbs start to catch the sun, pull it down, welcome it, and In thankless silence, the unburied dead, celebrate it. the nameless, forgotten lie where they bled, “Come, royal, have a rose.” I still reflect upon what they would give for the chance not to die before they lived.

And now descend the high horses of war to trample again on this desert floor and yes, I know that it was ever thus that nothing remains for the rest of us.

Our masters of war still sit on their thrones, but now do nothing but send in their drones; their sons in high towers, safe and secure will raise not a sword, of that I’m sure.

We give kings power and they still abuse it, we give men the blade and they still use it while the innocent in their youthful flush still lie in a great insignificant hush.

70 71 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

A HEART CHAINED BY FEAR OUR SCARS ARE DEEPER THAN THEY APPEAR Kuna Zero Samantha Maliszewski

Our scars are deeper than they appear. They’re deep dark fissures, Chained up and alone, radiating memories that are more my heart sits in its cell— frightening than those that go the walls are my fear of obsession, bump in the night. the shackles, my fear of rejection. These crawl through our veins, filling the cracks like sand. Its beat is faint, Millions of jagged shards of glass. nearly motionless, They fill us, but never allow us to as if playing dead feel complete, to avoid detection. whole, safe. The walls are covered in images The smallest trigger rips them open, of beautiful women, tearing off the emotional Band-Aids. their faces scratched out, They say you can never be struck but their eyes remain, empty and soulless. by lightning twice, but try being stabbed by millions of bolts The shackles are made of memories, over and their transient images forming links, over and the words wrapping around my heart, over again. bound to the wall by icy remembrance. They tried healing with shocks, not realizing you can’t fight fire with fire. It could end here, Wise, healing words will never replace broken and alone, those words spoken in another life. trapped in a cell made of fear, We are branded. the beat growing fainter and fainter. We are tainted. We are broken.

72 73 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

BRUSH CARE BEARS: THE SHOW MUST Go ON Jeff Parent Aggie Veale

Tip toe, tip toe, a spider goes across the bathroom ceiling above the shining basin sits at a dingy counter, where you brush your teeth. fur faded from dark indigo From your lip to a careless blue, a pearly ball his grey raincloud has of toothpaste become a puff of cigarette smoke, falls... and amber raindrops now a glassy eye fill his empty glass. aside your naked foot fixed upon the ceiling Once full of cheer, where a spider goes now it’s all just an act, tip toe, tip toe. chattering cold pink that careful painted smile glances off stiletto talons, lights seem almost red, and the rush of wind that accompanies every lost job sends goosebumps up her legs.

The ground is littered with trash but across the way a thin gleam of metal in the shattered moonlight shines with care once shared, his matted paw, heliotrope, steals away the little glimmer.

74 75 HEAVY METAL By CHARLES MANNERS

Bodies. Bloated, tongues dis­ tended, eyes jewel-like in life now dull as the late October sky keep­ ing silent requiem above. Spin­ ning. Robert shakes himself out of his daze, seeing the watery carousel for what it is: the pool skimmer full of frogs. Bad year for amphib­ ians, he thinks. He used to gently lift them out, each morning, chid ing them to not return, wishing them well. Not any more. Bad year for non-amphibians as well. His phone chirps. Text from Sarah: “pls dont b late agn. 3 rmembr?” His gaze sweeps the back yard, where he had sweated and grimed a basic subdivision lot into a ver­ dant oasis. It had given him plea­ sure, both that honest labour itself, and then the contemplation of the fruits of his efforts. But no longer. He looks up to the swaying purpled moptop tassels crowning a clump of giant Chinese silver grass. He sighs. This is it. Time to go.

77 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

Rustling through casual Tire Robert used to work at. knows it’s a lot, but what the Now what does he have? His clumps of leaves to his car he “Rob, buddy, how the fuck hell, eh? daughter a couple days a month? closes his eyes, inhales, holds are ya? Where ya been? You just “Geez, a twenty? What’s that He was the one who saw her it deep. His mind’s eye tries to disappeared. Boss didn’t know from—an inheritance? Some first emerging into the world, conjure and hold the past, but what the fuck happened to ya. one die?” not Sarah. He saw that weirdly fails. He sees only the frogs. Hired some new guy to replace Robert looks at Stan—really misshaped head first. My God! She’s deformed! Her head’s the *** ya. looks at him, until the dumb “Ah, you know. Just shit hap­ grin on Stan’s dumb face with size of an ice cream cone! So he The local Tim Hortons. pening, right?” ers—then picks up his coffee. didn’t know a newborn’s skull Sounds of baking ovens mix Stan nods. Robert gestures “We’ll see.” He heads out the was malleable—how was he with the buzz of visored, dun- towards Stan’s outfit. “Hunt­ door. Stan stares at Robert, at to know that was normal? He clad worker bees feeding a con ing?” the abandoned muffin on the had walked around the hospi­ tinuous stream of drive-thru Stan strikes a pose, puck­ counter, at the young girl be­ tal with her a few hours later: a queens. Robert, inside, wonders ers whiskered lips coquett hind the till. swaddled bundle he held, foot why he keeps coming back here. ishly, models his camouflage ball-style, in one hand, as he Coffee’s not good, but not ter­ print coat. “Buddy’s gotta camp told her about the life they all rible. How bad does it have to up near Englehart. A few of Running through loom­ would have together. And now, get before you can’t take it any us heading up. Moose. I’d say ing rock cuts on the highway four years later? Fuck that. Fuck more? c’mon but I know how y’are to Sarah’s house. A series of everything. His eyes skip over the girl about animals.” sharp curves, the granite walls A black squirrel bursts from serving him, ignoring her Robert’s turn to shrug. “Yeah, tattooed with “George luvs the grass edging the shoulder, curves. And did he want a well. Anyway, I gotta run. Goin’ Patti” and “RUSH 4-EVR!!!” freezes. pumpkin spice muffin with his to the ex’s to pick up my daugh share space with the scorched Robert turns from the high­ coffee? His gut, bloated with ter. reminders that rock always way onto the gravel side road last night’s rye and 2:00 a.m. re “How’s that going with, trumps automobile. The black­ where Sarah now lives, fishtails, frigerator findings, churns. He with—uh, what’s her—” top leading into the curves is barely in control. Black fur and hates pumpkin. “Bitch face?” similarly graffitoed with an as guts coat his wheel well. “Sure. Why not? What have I Stan laughs. “No, that’s my sortment of skid marks: differ *** got to lose?” She laughs, jiggles. old lady’s name. Sandra? Sam­ ent authors screaming the same Christ, he thinks, noticing at my? Sar—” final message: SHIT! Too fast! Through the locked screen last. Bet she’s not even legal. “Sarah. Going?” Robert ex­ The skid marks remind Rob­ door. “But you took me off your A sudden hand on his shoul­ hales nosily, shakes his head, ert of the scratches that Sarah benefits! I can’t afford my pills. der. “Police!” drops a twenty on the counter used to leave on his back, years Just lemme in so we can talk.” Robert spins, and is met with for his coffee and muffin, tells ago: a desperate grappling be­ Sarah looks at the man she a blast of laughter. Stan, a fellow Miss Jiggly Parts to keep the fore the inevitable loss of con­ used to love, shakes her head. mechanic from the Canadian change, yes, he’s sure, yeah, he trol. “No, Robert. Wait in your car.

78 79 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

She’ll be out in a minute.” Her How big was it?” “Daddy, what’s Bitish Clu going fast! Go faster—” voice is flat, without heat or nu­ “It was just little. Like my mia? I heard Mommy tell Todd **» ance. She watches him shuffle bears. On some sticks. With we’re going to a new house. It’s back to the old Pontiac. He flowers. Why is it there?” Bitish Clumia. Do you get your The frenzied banging on her looks smaller, shorter, as if he’s They had passed the roadside own house there too?” screen door brings Sarah run­ collapsing in on himself. memorial a few times before, Robert doesn’t answer. His ning. Her brother Paul, a vol­ A tug at her sweater. “Ready, but she had never asked about right hand clenches, convulsing unteer firefighter, in full gear: Mommy. Bye, Mommy!” it until today. on the wheel. The speedometer “Rob. An accident. His car—” Sarah sweeps her daughter “Hey, lets play peekaboo!” needle continues its clockwise Sarah hears screams through up, holds her tight, kisses her. Charlotte squeals, covers her sweep. He begins to rock back his words. Her screams. “Love you, Pumpkin. Have fun eyes. Robert starts counting, and forth, his breath sharp “—rock cut. We could read with Daddy. See you soon.” She with Charlotte repeating each through clenched teeth. The car the rear licence plate, but the watches Charlotte meet her fa­ number, until he yells “Now!”— crests a hill, commences a two- fire—there’s nothing left of the ther, watches them play their her signal that she can look. Al­ kilometer downhill run punc­ car. peekaboo game before Robert ready she can count to seventy tuated by a sharp curve carved Time gels, coalesces. She is secures her into the child seat in by herself. from granite. numb. She is nothing. She is the back. Sarah raises her hand “Daddy? What’s metal?” “I—don’t—my own house?” pain incarnate. Paul is trying to wave goodbye, but Charlotte “Metal? It’s hard stuff they His entire body shudders. “Okay to comfort her when his shoul­ doesn’t notice. She has her eyes make things out of. Like this then.” der mic crackles. He leans in, covered again, playing peeka­ car; it’s made of metal. Why, Robert rasps in a huge breath. listens, shouts for clarification, boo. Honey?” Robert looks in his “Charlotte, Honey, I really, re confirmation. He is crazed, She loved Robert so much, rearview mirror, sees his daugh ally need you to play the peek bursting through the screen once upon a time. But now, ter’s furrowed brow. aboo game, right now, okay. door toward the police cruiser there’s nothing in the world that “ ‘Cause I heard Mommy say Close your—your eyes really pulling into the driveway. An he could do to make her say you were metal. But you’re not tight, okay?” officer is handing Paul a child; that she loves him, even for a hard stuff like a car. She said “Okay, Daddy. Funny, metal words are exchanged. Left on moment. She wonders how he you have medicine, but you’re Daddy!” the shoulder of the highway? will react when she tells him still metal.” The car is shimmying now, Paul does not care how, or why. she’s moving to British Colum­ Robert struggles to control pistons slamming in metal ago He hugs his niece as he runs to­ bia, taking their daughter three his breathing. “Did Mommy say ny. Robert cries out a tortured, ward the screen door, toward thousand miles away. anything else about metal?” “Eyes shut, Honey, I love you! his sister, who looks out, sees, *** “I heard her say to Todd that Now count. One—“ thinks; there was one last thing you should go to a metal hospi­ “One.” he did that could make me love “Daddy? Why is there a bear tal. Then they laughed.” “Two. Smell those leaves? him one last time. there?” The car lurches forward, They smell like autumn.” “Charlotte saw a bear? Wow! picking up speed. “She did?” “Two. Whee, Daddy! We’re

80 81 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

AN ATTEMPT AT MERCY the tablier and cloth to wipe the silver the same as the day after, Helen Holmes when I wiped the green paint of your room, cleaning away the evidence of her As the veil lifts, I’m hanging onto the ceiling in her nightgown finding you in little spaces, and at the sight you quivered out, oh you, you never learn! “Oh god, Helen.” In death the same battering ram as life! (One can only guess why.)

The unwanted resets of the clock, flashing And the last gasp fogged the windows, figure eights and click, click, click sagged the bed, and was felt all the way to Florida— while buried deep in the bag of bags a great man was dying: suddenly's your pacemaker, the “Tobert” of the news, and the long shadow at the office buried in a melted plastic chest, who couldn’t be made to resign, so he kicked it instead, incessantly recovering from a series of mini strokes as you whip out a DNR; a great man, the pools of beet juice on the floor, I hope the afterlife was everything you thought it would be. dripping out the hallway, down the stairs to the dumpster (oh god, I’m dreading mopping);

82 83 DYING IS ART By MELISSA MEZZACAPPA

It was in the small things, the way she left the cups lingering on her bedroom floor, return­ ing to them after a long day, untouched. Five large mugs. Tomorrow there would be six. It was in the inches of fab­ ric draped across her bed that shed solemnly disintegrate into threads. It was in the way the darkness spilled through the cracks of the window and door frame, surging down her throat. It was her perpetual discomfort, her only reality—it was the dec adent taste of all this darkness heaving her into peaceful sleep, and later in the night, anxious dreams. It was in the way the papers lay scattered beneath her bed, thousands of ideas spill­ ing right through the cracks of the hardwood floors. It was the tiny lights that hung around the walls, providing a subtle glimmer to the chaos below— the floorboards, the wood, the papers, the mugs. It was the combination of the sublimity of such tiny, trivial things, the combination of this darkness

85 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES suppressing the light, the ideas She toyed with the concept Her hair ran across her face, but her weight. It was her mind. batting against one another, the of sadness. It was always there. she would not touch it. Instead, And yet her mind did not know cups chiming side by side. Tucked beneath her eyelids on she allowed the black strands where to take her. She was evap­ Had it ever been different? sleepless nights. Beneath the to caress her cheeks, fondle the orating now into the air. sheets. Projected on the walls. corners of her lips and the outer Close your eyes. Hovering like grey clouds on edges of her eyelids, until those Close. a stormy evening. But maybe dark locks were off and away, Open. There was a time when the this sadness was being mistak­ flying furiously about her face Close. sun’s rays beating against her en for happiness, and the tears in the frantic wind. She des­ Open. alabaster skin wrapped her in and overflow of emotions were perately longed for a place to a cocoon of warmth. A time of merely caused by an intense joy. go, somewhere that called for She was stale coffee left over meaningful company. A time of Maybe there was only happi­ her, lusted for her. But she had from Saturday morning on a laughter and comfort. He whis ness, to lesser and greater de­ nowhere to be. So she travelled Sunday afternoon. She was ar­ pered, “I love you” in her ear grees. Maybe sadness existed as quietly through the commo­ tificial grains of sugar curled and her cheeks ached from the an absence of happiness. Were tion of the streets, the passing up into tiny yellow packets. She smiles those words brought her. all other emotions then obliter­ glass windows that displayed was the spoon lying uneasily in But now, these small joys ated by this one universal sen­ pictures and books and clothes a china cup, hand painted with were lost. timent? What was sadness any­ she had no desire for, the happy yellow lilies and garden roses, way? faces that laughed in the com­ far more suited for prestigious Open. pany of other happy faces. She tea gatherings. She was dark Close. Open. felt herself dissipating into the rinsed hair dipped in decay Open. Close. concrete. She walked but she ing fragrances and grey eye Open. wasn’t walking anymore. It was lids painted with shimmering She was suddenly staring no longer legs or feet carrying powders. She was red velvet out into the abysmal darkness She walked through the of the early morning sky. Her cold, stinging air alone, feeling brain was filled with too many her arms and hands and feet thoughts, all of which she deep­ push heavily through the wind. ly wished to push away. Through She had no direction, no pur­ the trees, the wind whistled a pose, only two legs moving her tune and she replayed it in her through the breeze. She nestled head until she turned to mush. her fingers into the pockets of “You don’t deserve to be hap- her coat and frolicked through py- the afternoon. Quickening her pace, her feet moved over tiny Close. rocks and crunched-up leaves.

86 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES lips with scabrous peels formed sity to share their music with through rain and into the dark Close. by the icy winter air. She was the world. She once had far too fog of the morning, holding up forgetful, but she kept coffee- many dreams, all nestled up in a plastic umbrella respectfully Dying was her body lying by ringed napkins stuffed into the the framework of her mind and shielding her from Zeus’ tears. the shore, flat beneath the blis­ linen of her coat pockets with the curvatures of her writing. She too found herself dying on tering sun, but frozen cold. notes detailing her encounters. She was young, but far more the concrete ground, standing The beauty of losing all hope, The first one read: dejected than an old man with by the side of faces carrying ex­ all ambition, and all inspira tender bones. Nevertheless, her pressions of mutual disinterest, tion, bewildered her. Yet there Ivory skin manner displayed a kind of qui­ with a certain dullness contour­ was ambition in being flung tightened around his neck et serenity—somewhere inside ing the greyness of their eyes into a tide pool, sinking deep like a noose. her, a wild fire was burning, but and mouths. now into the blue canopy of its persistence did not escape Death was the cacophony water—this ambition was to Her writing was scribbles of her. She was one to remove all of pastel sentiments against reemerge, stronger now than ground black coffee beans. She expression from her face, after the rough canvas of the world. before, skin fleshed away by the was the wilted petal beneath the all. Her eyes, round in shape, Death was a myriad of painted water’s tides, but prepared to milky snow cascading over the glossed over in a dark paint, remorse and loneliness bleed­ regenerate, to thicken over the mountain hill from the outside were unassuming, and she had ing together. It was the chaotic bruises and wrinkles. There was of her window. She wore her af­ a promising taste for all that was culmination of colors. It was inspiration in that water too, ternoons around her neck, her beautiful in an eccentric way. where the brush completed the the way it consumed her whole, ears, and her wrists like heavy But she was dying ... stroke and consequently rose submerging her in its suffocat­ pieces of gold and silver jewel­ She died upon various oc­ from the canvas. Death was all ing death, cutting her air sup­ lery. Her face, grey with dust, casions. She was dying, for in­ the shades of existing human ply. There was inspiration in curved and etched with esoteric stance, as she emerged from bed sentience combining to form managing to resurface and take lines, was haunting in a most in the early morning and made this image, polished and com­ one more breath. Hope—there profound and dignified way. her way to the mirror, staring at plete, yet sad and inanimate. was hope in restoring her peace The trouble was that she was the heavy bags beneath her eyes Dying was art. of mind and finding solace by far too grey for this world. Her that lay like dark forest leaves on Was life not art too? the shore, amid the white sand, black hair was set atop an oval her translucent skin, now worn She could live on. Immortal the stench of seawater and the shaped head, crystal white, with down even more so, by winter’s ity was found in the eyes that subtle breeze combined with only the plump lips of a ripe oppressive air. She was dying as glanced over this page. If one the torch of yellow light patent sugarplum above her sharp, she stuffed breakfast cereal into only read these words ... to her senses. triangular chin, bursting with her mouth and watched the “I am lost in these pages color. Her arms were long, as others disappear into the thick, without you,” she cried. Open. were her hands, and her fingers white milk, like a sea of people were the slim bones of a piano drowning in a tidal wave. Dy­ Close. player with an aching neces ing was possible as she walked Open.

88 89 By YANN AUDIN

We had never heard of the town before, but when we learned that the royal fam­ ily used to vacation there, we decided to stop for the week end. North X was on our way, as on our bi-annual trips be tween Maine and Westmount we crossed the border at Derby Line. You might have known by our appearance that we were the kind of people who rarely encountered everyday prob­ lems. My wife had a proper Ivy League education and my posi tion allowed me to indulge in any extravagance. It comes as no surprise that North X would have caught our attention soon­ er rather than later. The land scape was, and still is, the same style found in the paintings my father hung in our family home. Whereas others would decorate their homes with every post modern piece of crap they could find, my family valued our his­ tory and tradition. Right away, I perceived that the inhabit ants of North X belonged to this same old world my family

91 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES took pride in being a part of. It have access to its numerous tween locals and affluent tour­ great age. The shore is bordered had one of the most acclaimed private beaches accessible only ists. I then spoke with three old on one side by houses and on the restaurants in the province (at by boat. Thus, as my wife took ladies at the cafe, one of whom other by a forest that has lost its which we ate on our first day) advantage of the water, I stayed was a Quebecoise from Quebec memory, but not its influence, an old fashion club (to which on land to explore North X and City, and engaged in an exten over the lake. Despite its origin we were introduced by a friend meet its people. I find it admi­ sive conversation about inter in the melting of the Laurentide of the family), and an ancient rable that although cities have national theatre. I went to the Ice Sheet, the lakes' waters are lake that had an atmosphere of lost their oral tradition, on the church to make the most of the clouded, hiding its depth. On being out of beat with our time. margin of the so-called civi­ post-Mass coffee hour. There the north shore of Lake M a few My wife and I were to spend lized world, history and life still I was lectured about the local embankments still hold boats Friday night through Monday touch each other. Here, I could university, and how its founder of various sizes and ages that lay morning around Lake M. Dur­ simply enter the closest antique was forgotten, buried under a silent and still on the placid wa­ ing this time, we did not spend shop or cafe to learn both the church wall. I spent a lot of time ters. On the bridge at the north­ much of it together. Our inter­ past and present of the place. at the general store discussing ern tip of the lake, I spent long ests in the town varied widely: I was taught, during various the complication of importing hours pondering the secrets of I wanted to learn about the past journeys I had taken as a teen gastronomic delicacies from Lake M. You should know that of North X while she wanted to with my grandfather, how to get Europe. My fascination for water fascinates me. For many enjoy the fruit of its present. such insights through showing other people, their lives, and years, I couldn’t tell you why, She was always very mod­ real interest and, sometimes culture was, as ever, a gateway I would stare at the ocean for ern, if you know what I mean. when necessary, flattery. into adventureless adventures hours thinking of the stories I I could never keep up with Between Friday and Sunday such as this one. However, I am had heard and read about in my her jogging or her hot yoga. I evening, I learned how Mrs aware it is not the story of these childhood. Water was the ulti­ would go for a swim once in a Y’s father built the little green people that most interests you, mate freedom for my childhood while and had always been fond house on Lake M that, because but rather the events of the last characters, so why did I feel of hiking, but there was some­ of a rockslide in the 1920s, was night and morning I spent, or oppressed by it? Whether on a thing about the institutionaliza­ now only accessible by boat. ever will spend, around Lake M. boat or swimming in a pool, wa tion of bodily recreation that I was told of the cult that was Before I give you the details ter surrounded me, and choked alienated me. Furthermore, this dismantled two years ago and of the incident that you no me like nothing else. It impedes particular lake had a kind of whose priest, that could defini doubt have heard of, let me tell a man's motion, restricts him serenity that, although not ap­ tively not cure cancer, was now you about the lake itself. Lake to his boat, and threatens his parent to everyone, made one in jail for fraud. I met a French M is large in the way only Cana­ breath and life. You can flee so loath to disrupt. Still, my wife antique dealer who taught me dian lakes are. The portion that ciety on water, but when you are focused all her energies on lake that North X was not polarized is visible from North X lacks in it, you cannot flee the mon­ sports. The same friend who between the French and the waves, its beaches equally flat, sters that lurk, under the lake. had introduced us to the North English as is so often the case both from the result of human On our last night at North X, X Club had ensured she would in this province, but rather be­ occupation and from the lake’s I went to bed early. My wife had

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met a couple from New York the head—three parallel lines PILLARS NEVER CEASE that had one of those white mo­ that the police could not ex­ Helen Holmes torboats that would create the plain. The motorboat that be­ infrequent waves on Lake M. longed to the couple was found How often have you tried to sell your kidney? That night, I dreamt of city lights three days later, at the bottom of Me, once— breaking the mountains around Lake M, covered in algae. for retribution of good deeds done North X and of a headmaster If such an event had to occur, I met two Mennonite women in the lobby, rotting under a church wall. In I am glad it happened where, they looked like women, acted like women, probably tasted like the morning, I was alone and and in the way that it did. Any­ women — the first thought I had was not where else it would have been in women full of salt. Full of bones that bend and organs that stew of my wife, but of the lake. Lat­ newspapers for a couple of days to an appetizing mush, and life— er, when I learned how she had and then forgotten. In North full of life. drowned, I knew it would not X, she became a part of its his­ But you know there’s something. have happened, had they sailed tory. For generations, people a slower, smaller, older boat. Of will speak of this night. They How often, conversing, the wider affair, you will excuse will remember the boat and the did each word, each word given like legal tender, me if I don’t want to speak. Just beach, and describe the corps­ sound like organs dripping out of my mouth like know that the three of them es and their markings. Their two-year old slobber; were found on one of the Club's hands shall draw, in the same did the fat melt me down, every firm belief private beaches. Only their fac gesture, three parallel scars as petulant, every strange moment I could imagine es were submerged. They had if they were their own, until like pudding in my stomach. drowned in a few centimetres of the day when the city lights will calm water, so the locals called break through the mountains to I felt every part become as heavy as lead, it the “Narcissus Incident”. The North X and mute all traditions heavy as your arms around my shoulders dead had the same wounds: one in the name of progress and around the neck, one on the modernity. the insides snaking like ribbons into the night mouth, and one on the back of slowly bleeding out of an ear or something that is itchy.

But whatever promises I made, whatever else, Nothing Prepared Me for The Question: “What support do you have?”

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I said: I WILL NOT MARCH I am myself a pillar, Madeleine Hession my mother is a windmill, my brother, an institution, my friends are gazebos and I dance in them.

I am myself a pillar I will not march and this is all I need. in your foolish parade. I will not bow to a puerile brigade. My white flag will not rise towards your barbaric eyes.

The green on this field seeps not from the earth, but from the skin of a girl who set aside her worth in attempt to voice her battle cry. Vicious and unruly, and expects me to comply.

I will not fight a fruitless battle. I will not mount a malicious saddle, because what was then is not now and what that is, is not how you saw what could be, you saw it without me.

I will not feed a fire that only feeds herself, for the ashes will burn more than the fire itself.

96 97 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

STRIAE I had an unnatural fascination with the legs of oth­ ers. Throwing surreptitious glances their way, trying Denise St. Pierre to assess the extent of their damage, so to speak. Even those who did have them had delicate white stripes, Lights illuminate EMMA, standing center stage. She wears a simple, like invisible fissures. Mine were angry and purple and short robe tied loosely at the waist over neutral undergarments. She dramatically concave—you could run a river through looks halfway between trying to impress someone and a woman in those things. Didn’t I just say oceans? Oceans and conti­ the throes of a comfortable relationship. nents and rivers, oh my! (Laughs.) A more poetic brain would make a better stab at saying this body’s an atlas. EMMA: Every once in a while, when I least expect it, I catch a I’m thinking more along the lines of those globes with glimpse of myself in the mirror and I think I’ve survived raised mountain ranges, like you’re reading the world in a brutal attack—one that I didn’t even feel. Like I was braille or something. Tangible formations and whatever. mauled but skipped over the tender, crusty wounds and went straight to scars—valleys, not peaks, that’s impor­ When you go through your whole life thinking you’re tant—that pain me but never seem to hurt. But that’s horrifying and unfuckable, it’s nearly impossible to some melodramatic shit, right? It's not like I’m alone come around to the idea that some people might not ac in this. Everyone has them, it’s a natural part of being a tually give a shit about your weird physical flaws and fall woman. I see myself constantly expanding like a galaxy in love the way they tell you they do in the movies and or the universe, pulling apart my fucking dermis until stuff. With everything. Head, heart, hands, all that. That it splits apart like tectonic plates in a continental shift. the things you fret about, the scars, the lines, they’re just And you don’t notice until you’re oceans away, and your in your head and that when a man or woman or any hu­ thighs looks like a tiger went to town on them. And not man gets down there, they’re really not thinking about just your thighs. Your hips, your ass, the backs of your how your thighs ripple or the fact that your leg isn’t an knees. Must have been a bloodbath. But I’m mixing airbrushed hotdog, or god, something else, a Barbie similes... leg, not a hotdog. Anything but a hotdog. God, I want a hotdog. (She hesitates. She places her hands on the tie around her waist. She pauses. She undoes the knot and lets the robe I hate, hate, hate that it took a series of people, of men, hang open.) not giving a shit about my legs to convince me not to give a shit about them. Every girl, every woman, hopes It certainly doesn’t help when every encouraging word it will be on her own terms. That eventually she can is coming from the mouth of a friend whose legs are look herself in the mirror and not want to dissect and creepily smooth like raw hotdogs. Not that all women reassemble, not hear a niggling little voice that says aren’t great and wonderful and all, but you’d be a fool to you’re unworthy, unlovable, unfuckable. The whole think we all root for each other all the time in the real gamut. Nobody expects to see someone behind them world where we actually have to know each other. See, in that mirror, nodding and smiling and just wanting

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to get down to it. No thoughtful meditations on your FALLOW flaws, no particular attention or ignorance. I know that Frank Willdig I wanted it to be me. And it wasn’t. But it got me here, I guess. I suppose that’s worth something. Sort of like the way that new mothers feel validated by the unadul­ terated admiration of their own children. Those kids recognize a home they once had. They don’t see marks and scars as impediments or barriers or reasons to hate you. They’re channels. A way out into the world.

(She shrugs the robe off her shoulders and lets it fall to the I shall let my cornfield go fallow, ground.) and wait for the growing of flowers, a profusion of forms and colours, I’m the globe, see? Peaks and valleys and all. I’m the will result from a cornfield gone fallow. whole, wide, wide world.

And all through the seasons I’ll follow, the progress of life in each flower, with sun and rain at the right hour, my world will be brighter with colour.

But alas, over time must come sorrow, my flowers will fade some tomorrow, as trees quickly grow and cast shadow, they fill the old field that was fallow,

But for now there’s joy and wonder to know, that someday they’ll find a new place to grow.

100 101 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

BUCKEYE Still waitin for it to fall in, this barn. Might just never, I think on nights like this, Jeff Parent cough like a black stone in a tin box. Barn air’s not helpin. Not really. Shoulda knocked this barn down years ago. Even the swallows won’t touch it none but on half-lit nights like this when sleep won’t come for coughin, I come out. See this old stall here? Smells like piss and mildew? I knew the horse once lived there.

Buckeye.

Mean son of a bitch, white as January with a single black spot size of a dime on his left haunch. That’s his off-switch, we tole the greenhorns and only the quick hands missed a kick to the head for believin it.

Off-switch. On a horse. Can you imagine.

Dead now, Buckeye. Found him one November right here in this stall, on his back. Legs straight up like holdin up the roof. Damnedest thing. Crop circles in Liverston Cross that year but who can tell what that meant.

102 103 LOST SOULS SONG LOST SOUL'S SONG By KATHARINE MUSSELLAM

Silence often scares people. That’s why many don’t talk to me, because they can’t hear my song. For my whole life, I’ve been the only one who could. I hear lots of other people’s songs. The boys have low ones with erratic time signatures. The girls’ songs are floating melodies with regular beats. I’ve never met anyone with a song like mine: gentle but asymmet­ rical, a lonely internal mono­ logue of a melody. Few people can suppress their initial revulsion when they encounter a person whose song they cannot hear, but Adele could. When we first met, she studied me. Her music paused as she listened to see if my song was merely quieter than the rest. After a two-bar rest, her music resumed, but as a variation. Un­ derstanding slowly formed on her face as her music returned to its original theme. “You don’t have a song,” she said as she approached me. I was tired of answering to peo­ ple who said this after nineteen

• • • • 105 • • • • • • • • • THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES years, so I only shook my head. though I know what you are.” who thought I was some kind tions of where we touched. She She looked puzzled. “Knowledge is one thing, of freak and violently enacted couldn’t hear my heart harmo “I can’t hear it,” she contin­ nature is another,” I explained. these beliefs. nizing, so I began to step on the ued. “Deep inside, there’s still a lack off beats in order to convey it to Nobody can,” I said. Even of understanding. It’s primal.” “Leave them alone!” Adele her. Adele felt the rhythm, and though I had told many people “But I want to hear your shouted at the two boys who as we broke out from the initial before, for some reason sadness song,” she said. “I’m sure its had been taunting me in the form, so did the music. Con seeped into my answer for the beautiful.” hallway one day, her music ac­ abbandono, we moved faster, first time since I was a child. I shrugged. “Everyone’s like cented with marcato notes. straying from regularity, wild “What do you mean?” she you, there’s nothing wrong with “They’re not an ‘it’. Who cares if and free. asked, an honest question with it.” you can’t hear their music? You We could no longer continue no malicious intent. I hesitated “But I want to hear it!” she don’t deserve to hear it!” when we became out of breath, for a moment. insisted. “It’s not fair that no­ That shut the boys up. Four- but even when we stopped danc­ “You hear that boy’s song, body else but you gets to hear bar rest, then a decrescendo as ing we could not stop laughing. right?” I began, gesturing to a your song.” they walked away. I noticed her song lilted when red-haired boy who was scroll­ “You’ll just have to live in Sometimes I wondered wheth­ she laughed. I loved it. ing through his phone. “Every­ ignorance like everyone else,” er it was difficult for Adele to As we relaxed and our laugh­ one recognizes a boy’s song or a I said. “ The doctors said only sympathize with someone who ing waned, I noticed something girl’s song. Everyone is naturally others like me can hear my mu was silent to her. If it bothered unfamiliar change in the mu attuned to them. But I’m dif­ SIC. her she never said so, though. sic, both emanating from her ferent. People don’t recognize This was true, to a point. In­ The most she’d ever done was and playing inside me. Quiet, someone like me. Their sym­ stinctively, only others like me ask me to explain what my tune but happy. An intimate adagio phonic receptors just can’t pick could hear our kind of song. But sounded like. But even when I slowing as we looked into each up my music.” there was another condition tried to explain it as eloquently other’s eyes and our breathing “I’ve heard of people like that I did not disclose to Adele. as I knew how, I still thought I returned to normal. you.” Adele nodded. “I mean, I Despite what I told her on fell short. never thought I’d ever meet one the day we met, she stuck by me Sometimes we would dance, One night we were leaving of you, or that I wouldn’t be able even though I must have been Adele and I. Alone in her room, class together like we always to hear your song if I did, I just an oddity to her. And even if her music was the only sound, did, but this time was differ knew your songs sounded dif she couldn’t hear me, I could at least for her. It was better, ent. Adele stopped and realized ferent .. ” hear her. As we spent more more personal than any record­ she’d forgotten something. She Adele paused for a few mo­ time together, her song gave ing, and it was all we needed as told me to wait for her at the ments, adopting an intense ex­ me a sense of security—espe we held hands and spun around bottom of the steps as she went pression. I could tell she was cially around those who refused the room. We swayed gracefully back into the still-lit building. I listening again. to understand that there were to her steady beat, everything stood there patiently when sud “I still can’t hear it even people like me who existed, else dissolved except the sensa denly I heard voices approach

106 107 THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES ing. in, and I ran. away. Pulse, breath—every melancholy inversion. “Look, its that thing!" My feet beat against the ce­ thing. And for once the silence I stared in disbelief. “Freak!” ment of the sidewalk, then as­ made me very afraid, because I “I heard you!” she exclaimed, I listened for Adeles music, phalt, then sidewalk again. I knew that nobody would find running towards me. but all I could hear were the turned corners, the pumping me in it. “What?” sombre drums of my aggressors. blood in my ears growing loud “Adele!” I cried as I paced “I heard your song!” Surely Adele had her things by er. I ran through the gates of the about the trees. My only hope I stood, shocked, as she em­ now. Any second and she would park, down its path and into the of being heard was my voice, braced me, before I softened to appear to tell these guys off. But trees. the only distress call I had. As her touch. her melody was absent. When I could run no longer, the seconds passed and nobody What I had never told Adele My heart was racing. The I gasped for breath and listened appeared, tears welled up in my was that if someone loves a per­ thumping in my chest and the for the songs of my tormentors. eyes. My voice faltered as the son like me deeply enough, they overtones of blood ringing in Nothing. I had lost them. seconds turned into minutes. will hear my soul’s song. my ears almost drowned out I looked around to see where Nobody could hear me, they I had given up on it ever hap­ the boys’ songs—almost. They I had ended up and realized were deaf to my every sound. pening, and yet there we were. were closing in. My mind’s eye that I had no idea where I was. And then I heard the drumbeat Our melodies swelled in a cre­ flashed memories of my time It was somewhere I had never of Adele’s footsteps, the familiar scendo and became one, the before Adele, and I realized the been and the expanse of dark tune began flowing back into themes blending and making pain I had endured before her ness, filled with only the faint my head. new, intricate variations: the song had washed over me. outlines of trees, sent me into a I turned and saw her, my un­ symphony of a lost soul’s song And so, my instincts kicked second panic. All sounds faded known melody leaping from its finally found. THE MITRE FANTASTIC TALES

THROW OURSELVES A CITY BIKE IN THE TOWNSHIPS Connor Richter Rosemin Nathoo

i. This land demands nothing less than your legs. Expression is a lesson, Hunched and rotating perennially, your body, at least, less than lessons learned acts the three sisters. and further from lessons earned, If you ditch the spandex, choose an aim turned inside out (say, ten kilometers for a beer, take the high road, until everything resides within. past pink volcanoes reduced to backdrop), then you’ll be covered with backpack-lianas or With what’s given is not a gift satchel-lianas or maybe a Guatemalan purse(-liana). but a sacrifice to suffice the needs of the other. Squash-legged and corn-backed and travelling bag-beaned, Feed it with meat cut from a lover, you may even have some to trade. or weep for them— a secret strung from a lung. This is the peak of productivity.

What they hear This land demands nothing less than your legs. they will praise Your feet may be bare, but if you are booted, but what they praise make sure that they are dirty. will never last, Avoid synthetic leather and if you can, it’s swallowed fast, scratch the toes with a machete or a hatchet, and you’re never taught to savour the flavour exhaust the gore-tex quickly, get them while consuming a saviour. dull and mud-caked. Then you’ll be ready to go. We try to throw ourselves eloquently, The pressure is all for your knees. hoping to spit wax poetics Choose the narrowest trails. on eternal truths and inner complexities. Park perilously close to the road.

Instead we remain This is the way to the peak. a murder of crows cawing a noble name down a drain pipe. 'Corn, squash, and beans—these were grown together by Native Americans all over both continents. The plants work together chemically and physically, maximizing the soil’s nutrients, with corn as the lattice.

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Bred here are the creatures who, truly, But that feverish northward lake! wear plaid like they were born in it. If you That too-familiar topography of carry on your adventures enough to primary-coloured puzzle bits seems to have exposed me, have stolen the film from my eyes, cultivate an air of casualness(/ty—in regards to these bodily organs-outwards, icy thighs thrills). remembering the Atlantic (Sure, you climbed this one this time, (and other fingers, too). you biked here to here in the rain, you’re totally used to these mountains, and you Maybe I’d better climb higher. always use a typewriter.) Grapple up these cliffs, my dear, until you’re Kilimanjaro-numb Then they—he—may just love you. (and the air is too thin for cologne),

But he is just a product of this land; then look across the Atlantic. he is all three sisters. You may measure in this way If you want to get over something, but the land will take back more than your legs. you first have to get above it. ii. To avoid exposure, aim your lungs at one hundred and eighty degrees, at least one thousand meters high, and smoke one hundred cigarettes.

Befriend just the stubborn and stunted spruce, who so-slowly carve through this cliff-face still post-glacially bare.

To avoid exposure cough out your diaphragm, instead catch the winds from Mount Washington, catch the winds from Inukjuak.

112 113 Town

NOT TO BE TAKEN AWAT CONSULTATION SUR PLACE CONTRIBUTORS

Laura Alessandrini Yann Audin Emily Baldwin Kristy Bockus Asha-Maria Bost Taryn Buskard Froy Choi (Natchasiri) Matthew Duffy Joe Flannery Nicole Gavreau Tina Golab Aqil Henry-Cotnam Madeleine Hession Helen Holmes Samantha Maliszewski Charles Manners Katie Manners Stephanie Martin Melissa Mezzacappa Katherine Mussllem Rosemin Nathoo Jeff Parent Charlotte Peters Connor Richter Ashley Shinder Denise St. Pierre Aggie Veale Nick Walling Andie Warner Frank Willdig Giulia Xuereb Kuna Zero