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149 High St., Box 1455. Sutton ON L0E 1R0 905-722-9587 gacag.com ―this place would be heaven.‖

―It is heaven, today,‖ said Bernadette to herself. She walked away from the shore around to the back of the house to unlock the kitchen door.

―Back, front; front, back.‖ No one in the family had ever agreed with her that the side of the house on the water was the front, and the side on the road was the back. She put the key in the lock and pushed on the door.

―Stuck! What did I expect? It‘s been closed for two years.‖ Determined to get it, she threw her full weight against the door. It opened.

Inside the air was damp. Bernadette went around and opened all the windows. It was her old rou- tine: first the kitchen, then the dining room, the sunCOPYRIGHT room, the living room, and finally her sister-in- law‘s bedroom. She had never found a way of rid- ding the house of dampness.

―Can‘t raise these hundred-year-old places built of stone., "the workman had said. ―Just vent it more.‖ CATHERINE BABICK Bernadette walked slowly back through the rooms

making sure that everything was just as she had left A PLACE FOR SPIRITS ©2020it. ― A good cleaning, that‘s all it needs.‖ Then she Marcella Tanzola went to the bottom of the stairs. Before going up ―A hall - of - famer!‖ said Bernadette, looking at the she hesitated. That momentary pause was the ves- lake. tige of a ritual she initiated the first time she and her father set foot in the old cottage, more than fifty That was the expression Bernadette‘s husband, MATERIALyears ago. At that time the interior of the cottage Tom, used to describe a still and sunny day on the was in total disrepair. It was empty, dank and dirty south shore of Lake Simcoe. Calm water and clear and the uneven floors under the broken tiles skies were rare on the open bay where more often creaked. than not the rocky point of land was buffeted with ALLstrong winds from the north and the west. They al- ―Do you think it is haunted?‖ she had asked her fa- ways chilled the air even on a bright summer day. ther. Behind the stone chimney there were the When the day was perfect, everyone took note of it, steep stairs to the second floor. The stairwell especially Tom. seemed like a mysterious passage to an unknown world. That day Bernadette had stopped on the first ―If we could only stop the wind,‖ he used to say, step and listened, expecting to see, or, at least to looked on to the waterfront. It was to her room that hear spirits moving about. To steel herself for the she would often go in the late afternoon to escape eerie encounter with the phantoms, and hoping to the activity of her children. In the afternoon, the room disarm them, she had quickly composed a friendly was bright and usually fresh with the breeze from the salutation and recited it in a whisper as she climbed lake. She would lie at the end of her bed and enjoy the stairs. the view of the waves, or she would read, or she would just be alone with the spirits whom she had ―We really like this cottage. I hope you don‘t mind befriended. that we own it now. We are going to fix it up as good as new and come every summer. You can stay if Bernadette went into her bedroom and sat on the you like.‖ end of her bed. She stared at the wall where an old pair of Tom‘s pants were still hanging on a hook. By the time she had reached the landing, she felt Tom loved the cottage as much as she did, she that whoever was there had moved out of the way thought. He did his share to keep it up and never and allowed her to enter the dusty attic bedrooms. resented it. She looked out at the treehouse he had From that day she had never failed to acknowledge built years ago for the children. They were all mar- the spirits of the cottage; and although she had nev- ried now. er seen any of them, she believed that her secret recognition of their presence was a guarantee of ―ThereCOPYRIGHT are so many other places to go during the personal protection. summer.‖ they told her whenever she reminded them that the cottage was free for them to use. Bernadette smiled. ‖Who would think that I believe in ghosts? ―Here I am!‖ she said aloud, ― I am coming She lay down and closed her eyes. She wanted to up.‖ remember and rehear the sounds of the summers past: The squeals of the children swimming in the There were three bedrooms upstairs. The large one lake, the kibitzing of her friends at the picnic table on at the top of the landing with the two double beds the porch, the laughter of her sister-in-law in the and the bunks was the children‘s favourite. ©2020 How kitchen, Tom‘s call from the dock for her to come many summer nights had Bernadette called up to and see the ducks. Like the waves that broke on the scold her boys for the using the top bunk as a spring rocks and splashed over the dock on a windy day board and to warn them of the usual punishment for the sounds rolled back and forth. With the voices making too much noise. The threat of being put in MATERIALthat ebbed and flowed on the current of her memory, the back bedroom was enough to settle them down. images of the past appeared and disappeared. Did None of the children would sleep there. It was too she secretly want to join the spirits of her own past scary they said because of the mysterious little door who, by virtue of her family‘s ownership of the cot- that opened to the dark space under the roof where tage, had now taken up residence in the cottage ALLthe mice ran at night. The windows of the back rooms? room looked out on to the driveway, the road and the hedge of Ellen‘s place next door. ―Bernie!‖

Bernadette‘s room was at the end of the narrow hall- Whose voice was that? The shrill call shattered Ber- nadette‘s reverie.― Bernie, are you there? It‘s me, way; and like the large bedroom, its dormer windows Ellen!‖ . ―So that‘s who it is,‖ sighed Bernadette. She got up, change in her friend‘s expression. went to the landing window, opened it and looked ―Oh Bernie! I th….think I am seeing things. Look! It‘s down at her old cottage friend. Tom!‖ ―Bernie, I‘ m so glad you‘ve come up. We haven‘t ―What? Where?!!‖ seen you since Tom‘s funer…. Look, I‘ll put the cof- ―Down by the treehouse!‖ fee on. You come over. We have so much to get caught up on.‖ Bernadette stared in the direction of the treehouse high in the old willow beside the lake. She didn‘t see Bernadette didn‘t have a chance to make excuses. anyone. ―Darn!‖ She hadn‘t come back to the lake today to ―He‘s gone! You must think I am crazy, Bernie. But I see neighbours. This beautiful day was given to her did see him. Look, I have goose bumps all over. Did- to be alone with her memories. Now that Ellen had n‘t you see him?‖ discovered her, she would have to spend the rest of the afternoon listening to Ellen‘s tales of her children Bernadette shook her head wearily,‖ No, Ellen, but I and grandchildren. As she walked through the sun- believe you.‖ room to go outside, she noticed how empty the ―Was it a ghost?‖ asked Ellen, aghast at the mere house was. Ellen‘s coming had even chased away possibility.COPYRIGHT the spirits. ―Maybe.‖ Said Bernadette calmly.‖ Sometimes when ―Those were the days.‖ sighed Ellen, filling Berna- you talk about the dead, you bring them back to life.‖ dette‘s coffee cup a third time. Ellen was wide-eyed with surprise and disbelief. ―How about the time your eldest son ran away. You ―But this has never happened to me before when I and I drove as far as Queensville, looking for him; have talked about dead people. Bernie, you don‘t and Tom went the other way . You were beside your- believe in spirits?‖ self when we didn‘t find him. So we drove back to ©2020Bernie was wondering if she should tell Ellen her se- the cottage hoping that Tom had found him. There cret, but why should she frighten her. he was, standing in the driveway as smug as could be. You started to cry, remember, and I stepped on ―Maybe you should stay here and not go back to the gas and drove right past him. I said to you, your place.‖ 'You're not goingMATERIAL to give him the satisfaction of see- ―Don‘t worry, Ellen, said Bernadette getting up to ing you cry. That‘s just what he wants. We‘re going leave, ―I am not afraid. After all it‘s only Tom‖ she for ice-cream.‘ And we did, a double scoop each!‖ said teasingly. ― But will you be all right?‖ Bernadette was laughing at the memory of that day ―Sure, I guess so. I‘m just not crazy about seeing ALLand thinking that Ellen was raising her hand to her ghosts. Won‘t you start to come back to the cottage mouth to mimic the imaginary ice-cream cone. In- more often?‖ stead Ellen was just then stifling a scream. ―I think I will, said Bernadette. Thanks a lot Ellen. I

―Ellen, what‘s wrong?‖ Ellen‘s eyes were wide with needed this afternoon and you to encourage me to fright and Bernadette was alarmed by the sudden come.‖ Bernadette went back to her place and sat under the you mustn‘t frighten Ellen. I need her, when I come treehouse for a long time. She looked toward the back. We all need people like Ellen who draw us out dock, toward the rocky point, at the calm clear water of ourselves. and bright blue sky and then toward the long porch of When it was time to go, Bernadette shut the windows the stone cottage. She was waiting for Tom to reap- downstairs and locked the kitchen door. Then she pear and was wondering why Ellen, and not she, had went to say goodbye to Ellen who walked her to the seen him. She felt cheated. She looked up to the se- gate and watched her get into the car. cond floor windows which were still all shut. Sudden- ―I‘ll keep an eye on your place ‗till you get back. Oh ly , it was all clear to her. look! You‘ve left a window open upstairs.‖ She ran into the house and without hesitation, she ―It‘s all right, said Bernadette, the house needs a little ran up the stairs and opened all the windows. fresh air. I‘ll be up next week, anyway.‖ ―So, that‘s where you were, Tom. You‘ve been ―I‘ll be waiting for you.‖ locked up here for two years. Today‘s a perfect day and you wanted to go down to the lake and to the Bernadette smiled. ―He‘ll be waiting, too.‖ She dock and to the treehouse. You didn‘t like being thought. ―See you soon, Ellen. Enjoy the rest of the alone. You never did. You got your chance to escape day. It‘s a hall-of -famer, as Tom used to say.‖ when Ellen came and I opened the window to talk to COPYRIGHT Ellen nodded and waved. Bernadette waved back to her. She let you out and your appearing to her was her friend and then to Tom who was at the upstairs your way of thanking her. O.K. I‘ll leave the windows window watching her drive away. open and you can come and go as you please; but

It was still early March and winter had lasted longer She hated winter despite the fact she‘d lived up north than anticipated. That silly groundhog was always for many years. The cold seemed to kill something wrong. This winter had been particularly hard for her, inside her, and year after year, when she put away her first year on her own. She had learned to use the the patio furnitureMATERIAL and her summer clothes, she co- snow blower; she had chipped away ice, and closed cooned herself inside the house and waited for the up all the water lines herself. She‘d sat in the dark frozen world to thaw. most nights, worrying about every creaking noise the Through four long months of bitter cold, she func- house made, worried about the power going out or ALLtioned on automatic – get up in the morning and go to the furnace dying, and imagining herself freezing to work in the dark; come home in the dark and go to death with nobody even knowing for weeks. bed. When the darkness outside her started to creep She stood beside the frozen canal and thought about into her mind and soul, she used her Feel Bright light the changes in her life and the separation that had visor that claimed to prevent SAD or Seasonal Affec- been her idea. She‘d had enough of being taken for tive Disorder. SAD – what an appropriate acronym. happiness.

Not that she was happy now either. Maybe there was no such thing as happiness; maybe it was all just an illusion, like a dangling carrot to keep a person going, this eternal search for happiness. She wasn‘t ready to date again. For years she had thought better the devil you know than the devil you don‘t and now she realized that no devil at all was the best solution. So, she‘d learned to paint ceilings herself, rip up carpets and remove the staples. She cried the entire time out of pain, frustration, and loneliness, but she had persevered.

Things had changed. She was learning to manage on her own, to motivate herself and to keep going; only winter still needed to be conquered. She had avoidedCOPYRIGHT dealing with the sham that was her marriage for too many years, now it was time to deal with winter, to draw upon her inner strength, to be a better person, a more resilient person. Catherine Babick She removed her skate guards and stepped out on- granted in a loveless marriage without even holding to the frozen water. Like riding a bike, one never for- hands for more years than she could remember. gets how to skate and it didn‘t take long before she The only role he‘d played in her life was to criticize©2020 was soaring down the canal, arms outstretched and her and put her down. She was never good enough. face lifted to catch the rays of the sun. Alone on the She could work and cook and clean and pay for frozen canal, warm within her layers of clothing, she everything but somehow it was never enough. Like was finally flying. the cold, her marriage had killed something inside MATERIALShe was finally winning. her and year after year she‘d been going through the motions, unable to imagine a future that included ALL One of my first memories is my mom on the floor, a piece of watercolour paper damp in front of her on a board; the jar of blue green water beside her; and the paints, glistening like worms, squeezed into an ice cube tray; and her saying, ―Not now, I‘m painting.‖ Once, she tricked me. She put me in a chair in the living room with a stuffed toy and told me to sit very still; she was going to paint me. The painting of a sleeping child still hangs on the wall in her cottage. I didn‘t want to be left alone in the house with my old- er sisters when my mom went ―sketching‖ and I didn‘t understand why she didn‘t want to take me with her. She‘d drive; I‘d be in the backseat, still teary and hoarse from begging and pleading. Mom would drive out to the countryside, to some dirt road where she‘d pull over to the side. While I waited in the back seat, squirming, and regretting my decision to ride along, she‘d unscrew the lid on her jar of water, dip a brush in, tap it against the lip to get rid of the drips, and Dabanoki (Darlene Kindness-King) beginCOPYRIGHT to paint. Sky, fields, a barn way off in the dis-

and Gabi von Gans tance, a broken fence. The woman didn‘t have enough attention to focus on me and painting at the same time. She had to make a THE BORING MOTHER choice. I was insatiable, soaking up her strokes like colour on a thirsty piece of paper. I needed her to Sandy Day choose me but she couldn‘t.

Jeanne Faria

Christened Donnel by the parish priest at his birth, and MATERIAL―Doogie‘ by everyone else afterward, to most he was deemed rude and inconsiderate, and if you asked some, they‘d agree and suggest it was a mild summation of his quick, cold little way in the world. It is unto this somewhat unpleasant barren landscape that our story falls. ALL He , it would be fair to mention that Doogie hailed from a long line of what the same parish priest called ―arse wipes‖ when he as alone, sipping on his native whiskey and lamenting the unpleasant surly and outright rude GABI von GANS nature of the Doucoulette clan. He was a small man - both in character and stature ture without the nasty and frigid reality that living with alike. His eyes, although not often described, when Doogie Doucoulette yielded. mentioned at all, were noticed as beady, cold and Mary Louise was not a radical woman, nor a suffra- hard. Not the dull lifeless eyes of a fish, they held the gette, so when she packed her cases into the trunk of singular glare of self-interest and were the windows the hired car, it was only one driving thought, one in- into a soul without kindness, empathy or generosity. sistent, urgent thought driving her… survival. His speech and movements were quick and economi-

cal, all with the effect of not wasting time or energy on the mundane and unimportant moments, or people in InIn the small rural northern town where the Doucou- life. To many he was rude and inconsiderate, and if lette clan had done their shopping and praying and you asked some, they‘d agree and suggest it was a business for many generations there was very little mild summation of his quick, cold little way in the whispered conversations about the disappearance of world. It is unto this somewhat unpleasant barren Mary Louise. All of the conversations ended with landscape that our story falls. ―god‘s speed‖ or ―all the best‖ as if she had narrowly escaped a disaster or fate worse than death, which,

of course she had. Doogie Doucoulette married the Scottish younger sis-

ter of a war – bride, plain and sturdy. He could not COPYRIGHT see or ever come to appreciate the beauty that every- That Sunday the parish priest delivered as part of his one else saw plainly, eyes warm and bright with intel- mass a sermon warning against judgement and call- ligence and kindness and a full mouth given to genu- ing for the need for understanding. ine and contagious smiles. It is true from her wed- ding day onward, Mary Louise Doucoulette, nee Doogie Doucoulette did not attend church, that day, Kinkardin, smiled very little. or before or after returning home and finding his wife ©2020and her possessions gone He had labelled her a Her husband, she came to learn, was a quick tem- whore and a Scottish harlot and shoved her cleanly pered brutish man who wielded control like a club, from his mind, without effort. It would be easy and smashing any attempts at self-actualization like he accurate to say Doogie Doucette did not care who he was hammeringMATERIAL iron rails into rock. She‘d stand on hurt. the rocky shore of Georgian Bay when the clouds rolled and the cold grey water crashed and boiled, The rest of Doogie Doucoulette's life is fairly unre- accepting the icy sting of the water‘s spray willingly markable. He lived his life with the grim, clean effi- because it came to be the only times she felt alive.. ALL ciency of an abattoir. Until, at the age of 84, and in what was to become his second last year of life, Doo- Doogie‘s loveless life and careless and abrupt de- gie made a friend. It wasn‘t your standard friendship. meanour was killing her like a cancer, soul crushing Indeed, it wasn‘t even a relationship with another hu- and leaving her without any optimism more for a fu- man being; something that those knowing Doogie over the dec- nearly two thirds of his house. The urge had been ades of his clearly miserable life could have, and absolute and sure, Doogie could not barricade him- would have, readily told you was an impossibility. self away from the powerful expanse of Georgian Bay and its rocky pine laden shorelines. It was out these To reach Doucoulette‘s Point you had to travel down picture windows that Doogie first spotted the tres- from town on a two lane black top that transitioned passer who was to become his first and only friend into an uneven gravel laneway at the Doucoulette‘s through the picture windows that framed the rocky property line. This gravel laneway, broken and heav- pine laden shoreline of the Georgian Bay. ing from harsh Canadian winters, wound its way, ser- pentine around cedars and birch and sugar bush ma- The folks in town would come to marvel over Doo- ples and large granite boulders left behind when the gie‘s unexpected turn of kindness, and perhaps even ice fled. The laneway cut through the woods until it Doogie would never know what came over him, what reached the cold, ever-churning waters of Georgian moment of mad compassion and humanity draped Bay. itself over him like an ill-fitting suit.

At the end of the forest, but before the stony shoreline He only knew the ginger haired interloper caught his sat, rather imposingly, the house that Doogie‘s ances- attention as it limped forward, its hind leg held up tors had built on a point of land given long ago to the lamely from use. Doogie had seen photos of the sur- Doucoulette for effort in the War of 1812. The long vivorsCOPYRIGHT from the camps in World War II, and the nearly ago Doucoulette had built the first part of the house, a skeletal visage of his uninvited guest made it one of sturdy structure, made of indigenous rock quarried the sorriest creatures he had ever laid eyes on. Out- from his own large land parcel side the aggressive north wind howled as Doogie watched the small mangy fox sniff and search out For almost five decades Doogie lived as he had al- food, hobbling badly on what Doogie mentally re- ways lived alone and in a broth of miserable self- ferred to as its ―bum leg‖. indulgence. He sometimes, in the long dark of winter, thought of his bride Mary Louise, before recalling©2020 that There was precious little thought in what happened she was nothing but a tramp and not worth the dirt next. One moment Doogie was observing from his under his shoe. Doogie was the wretched rock unto rather ratty lazy boy worn recliner, and the next he which the wild and treacherous waves the Georgian was tossing left over dinner out towards the fox, Bay broke upon MATERIALand receded from. Immovable, stub- which heard the sliding door open and had ducked for born and inflexible, the better of half a century passed cover. That act, the one kind unselfish gesture Doo- on this point of land that stretched out into an ocean gie Doucoulette had ever offered the world, was like expanse of water. Life was all around him but throwing out into the snow, three left over pork chops, Doogie Doucoulette witnessed none of it. drier than shoe leather.

ALLIn the end it was on a particularly harsh and cold af- Doogie watched from inside again, as eventually after ternoon in March that changed everything for Doogie, a time, the mangy fox peered out from behind a clus- and his new friend. Doogie Doucoulette‘s most ro- ter of grey granite boulders, it‘s hunger overriding mantic and extravagant gesture had been the installa- fear. Perhaps the relationship, born in that moment tion of floor to ceiling windows that wrapped around was one of mutual need: survival for the starving wounded fox, and for Doogie who felt the unexpected Doogie than a lifetime of dealing, albeit reluctantly, stirring of kindness in the cold fiord of his heart, the with people. The leaves fell in autumn and Doogie desire to help. and Red watched them comfortably from their space on the deck. The air turned crisp at night, and then By early April the shoreline and property was still fro- during the day, and then soon the first snowflakes zen, but Doogie‘s heart thawed with regard and affec- fell. tion for his friend, aptly named Red. Red the Fox thrived under Doogie‘s remarkably nurturing care. Red‘s coat was thick and full and he would no doubt With the help the town veterinarian who, driven by survive the winter with a nice layer of fat under his fur curiosity at Doogie‘s request, agreed to make a se- but Doogie drove into town and purchased a large ries of house calls to aid in the recuperation of the dog bed from the Pet Value. He placed it in front of fox. Additionally, he was in awe that the tight fisted the large living room windows, somewhat close to his Doucoulette had told him to spare no expense for the own well-used recliner. Just for especially cold days, care of the fox. At the Legion Hall later that week, he he told himself. Red had already been in the house would tell the others about Doogie and the fox, and on numerous occasions and had investigated most of what he observed as ―the keen regard for each oth- the more compelling scents. The fox thought little of er.‖ the bed until the cold weather drove him inside for longer periods, and he came to appreciate the heat of By June Red was alternating between living in a den COPYRIGHT the fire and the dry soft bed. he had dug under the deck, and a doghouse with a cushion bed that Doogie had placed up on top, near That spring Doogie felt himself weakened, his appe- the living room windows. His leg and mange and mal- tite gone and his only comfort the friendship of a little nutrition all healing thanks to the efforts of Doc Wil- red fox. It wasn‘t long after the snow started to melt, son, who wore a somewhat perplexed and fascinated that Doogie saw another fox on the property. It had a expression for the duration of his professional care. slightly lighter, paler coat than Red and Doogie watched as she skittishly manoeuvred through the Red would follow Doogie around outside as Doogie ©2020forest of trees, not as comfortable with the human made his slow somewhat shuffling rounds around the smells as Red. property completing chores. The young fox would leave and explore, but always return by dusk and on One morning Doogie sat out in the warming sun, very warm days would stay sleeping in the shade, his drinking his Nescafe when he heard the yips mewls eye lazily openingMATERIAL from time to time to check for the and cries coming from under the deck. Doogie re- Old Man. spectfully kept his distance, knowing that the kits would leave the den and explore in due time. He fed It was to be Doogie‘s last full summer on Doucoulette Red‘s mate extra portions and resisted the impulse to Point. Indeed, his last full summer anywhere and he hand out cigars, although of course, there was no ALLspent it quite contently in the company of his best one around. friend. Doogie would awake to find Red sitting patiently at the screen door waiting for Doogie and The ice core of Doogie Doucoulette‘s heart cracked would yip and wag his full, furry tail, which Doogie and popped as it melted inside its once frozen cham- thought was quite outstanding. These yips and ber. It was in early July with the cicada‘s singing that sounds of affection brought out more humanity in he drove himself into town for an appointments with his attorney and the good vet- yer both took turns speaking to the full amazement of erinarian, Doctor Wilson. the community. Inside the small church that smelled like linseed oil and old wood, they shared that Doogie Afterward he drove to the Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar, Doucoulette‘s last and final piece of business was to and he bought everyone their ice-creams. Two la- ensure the safe survival and refuge of the foxes of dies from the Kinette‘s were so dazed at Doogie‘s Doucoulette‘s Point. The charitable sanctuary was smiling face and chocolate covered lips, they could aptly called Foxes Run. barely eat their own Peanut Buster Parfaits. Doogie winked at them on his way out, wiping his mouth with In the gloaming sits a mature red fox, he is lit by the the sleeve to his cotton work shirt and made for his final blues and purples of the setting sun as it sinks truck with an unmistakable spring to his step. into the deep waters of the Georgian Bay. Though no one can say for sure, the fox is still and quiet as Doogie Doucoulette died on a Tuesday, only a he remembers his friend. The sun sinks for another month after eating ice cream in town. His funeral, day into the magnificent waters and Red stands and which many would have bet would have been as well lopes away comfortably headed for home and sleeps attended as a whorehouse on Sunday, was instead a peacefully curled up on a ratty old recliner. crowded affair. The veterinarian and Doogie‘s law- COPYRIGHT BRING ME A SMOOTH STONE Janis Luttrell

We are each of us stones Uniquely beautiful Shaped by sand Bathed and blessed by water ©2020 Some of us gather together against better judgement To play the safe and even path With like neighboursMATERIAL LOUISE ANNE GUY While still others scatter themselves in the current Taking their chances Separate and apart Unless by fate their edges meet ALLSome will have their rough edges Polished nearly smooth I like the rough and smooth of you Let me lay my hand on each surface until we are one KAREN WATSON DANCING LEAVES Katherine Gibson (Kurck)

Chased by frisky breezes Leaves dancing all around Delighted they are swirling Whisked across the ground

A kaleidoscope of Fall colors Bright yellow, orange and red Gathering happily all together To make, an oh so pretty bed

Falling leaves like gentle rain As speeding down they fall LESLIE SEDORE OLEKSANDR HEAD Empty trees now stark and bare Bravely stand, all stiff, and tall COPYRIGHT

RUSH HOUR Steeve Chwojko-Srawley

Dark. The cold. ©2020 No wind yet. The stars are solid, unwinking. Nobody is here, no animal prowls the doorways. Lonely sidewalks rise dimly from the wide pavement and hug the loomingMATERIAL walls. Blackness fills the narrow sky between stars, drawn downwards by high-rise ELIZABETH McLEAN office buildings to seep into windows and impenetra- ble doors. Such stillness grips the darkness, so un- around and around, dissipating for a moment, only to broken, so unending, as if even this long and lonely mutter and hiss again by railings or by post. Caught ALLnight had sunk into a deep sleep and can no longer up briefly, a dead leaf becomes the unwilling partner move itself to some cold, impassive gesture. A thin of this tenuous, menacing draft, rising and rotating, movement of air whispers around the iron benches turning as if it would listen to the moaning sigh, be- in the municipal garden, an intangible ghost that is fore slowly settling back to earth. All becomes quite doomed never to rest while the city stands but must still once more, so unbroken, so unending, united always move its bodiless presence back and forth, and untied by the strangling blackness of the unmoving city. Rare lamps the ominous ally of black magic and dark appari- throw out sullen light in small, tions, as it slides without noise around gnarled motionless pools around their trunks and through short blades of colourless grass, feet. Wraiths of steam rise stopping now to stare with malice and arrogance, warily from iron grills. Life has unsheathing for a brief instant supple and deadly no hold here. claws that it licks slowly and deliberately with a blood -pink tongue. The dirty, pale light of the streetlamps No more wind. is reflected from its eyes, unblinking and tiny circles So cold. of yellow steel sliced sharply through the centre to All is still, like frozen reveal the blackness of the cat‘s deepest thoughts. pools of ice, a motionless si- Unhastily, the sharp claws withdraw, the steely re- lence paralyzed by the witch- flection is hooded, as with uncaring disdain it moves ing hours, a coldly bleak ab- an ear, twitches its tail. Not long now, the cat senses sence of sensation where life it, before this night is chased away. If food should never could set its foot. There appear, it must be soon. is no small window left ajar An almost imperceptibly small movement, grey through which to slip, through against grey. A mouse. which to sneak from the weight of heavy darkness; COPYRIGHT Innocent, it advances. The cat, marble-like, the shops that line the empty sidewalks offer no crouches, only the eyes turning, intent, feeding the such escape, no safe womb where eyes may be instincts, while the dark distance to the unwary closed and consciousness suspended until the night mouse diminishes with each small step. No quiver should tire of stalking, move off and move on. Night, betrays the cat, no tingle of excitement or tremor of the eternal night, harbinger of absolutes and infin- anticipation that might cheat it of its early breakfast. ites, night unmoving, night like ice, freezing the tongue that would deny it, inviolate night, holding©2020 in The darkling leap, like a black-on-black flash, its murky gloom the delusions of fantasies and hallu- strikes from nowhere and a squeal of dreadful sur- cinations. Is it this dark unseeingness that so fills us prise, so soft that it barely covers the faint, muffled with vague dreads and beats our heart to its own snap, is cut off with abrupt finality. cold rhythm? Or is it the shady indistinctness of pro- MATERIAL A fleeting wind ruffles the cat‘s fur as it turns its file, no endings and no beginnings? Only the street head in haughty pride, the bloody mouse hanging can know, the desolate street, spiritless haunt of limp from its jaws, a wind come to claim this new homeless spirits, beyond all life, beyond hope. small soul and carry it upwards on the dead leaf that A slinking cat steals between empty wooden again rises in trembling spirals, before returning to ALLbenches, across the dim lawns of the municipal gar- the cold ground, its open tomb. The cat tears the den, its sleek black body held low as it quests for newly dead flesh from the fragile bones, a slight food, or excitement, for another cat to challenge or movement that underlines the stillness, a slighter to chase, a moving presence that the night has for- sound that underlines the greater silence, an unnec- gotten to envelop in its stillness. Or again, an omen, essary life wasted in the thoughtless dark. But now, a solitary bird-call breaks the eerie quiet, a on toward the further edge of the street a second fig- single note, loud against the frozen backdrop of the ure emerges from the gloaming, hat pulled low to night. The cat pauses as the echoes are lost among meet scarf as if night itself were something that the menacing office blocks. Silence sinks once more; needs to be keep at bay, an unwanted intruder that a different, expectant silence. invades personal space and abducts perspective and horizon. Each is aware that they are not alone in this The street no longer slumbers. pre-dawn street, although they are being careful not The black sky, weary of the insatiable night, to look at each other and ignore their mutual pres- heeds the lonely call of the early bird. Gradually, im- ence as they approach and pass. perceptibly, the boundless and star-filled depths of A drawling rumble, for some time nearing then darkness begin to withdraw, and a new tone appears, stopping in brief jerks, increases in volume and at first a less heavy shade of impervious black, then a bursts in upon the scene. The garbage truck lurches so-dark tinge of grey. forward then halts as its drones pick up bags, feeding Again the bird calls, proud that its small, thin in graceful arcs the truck‘s gaping jaws. A few yards voice has begun an inevitable and profound change further on, some more bags, another stop. in heaven and earth, and this time the call is taken The driver advances, moving out into the road, and answered by a second voice. Another brief call, then backs obliquely towards a mountain of garbage almost similar, rings out from near, then another from COPYRIGHT with a loud warning beep, strident and annoying. A middling-far, and as if they had been waiting in the shout. He stops abruptly. Colleagues begin razing the wings for a summons to the stage, the calls multiply mountain, the muddled rags and tags of unwanted and are raised up in a welter of notes and forms that refuse, carelessly flung away in all sizes of box and join together in a chorus of shifting and variegated bag and old container. It is thrown with an unhurried patterns. The sky slowly shakes off its grey night- precision that clusters everything in disorder deep in dress and shows itself in the deepest of blues, the truck, to be taken and swallowed. pierced yet by temerarious stars, as unwilling shadows crowd into the lowest doorways and corners©2020 of A car arrives and tries to pass the truck, but the road. there is not quite enough room so the car must wait, the sound of its quiet engine lost behind the larger And now a bowed figure appears, its coat but- vehicle‘s noisy rumble. One minute passes, two toned up against the lingering cold, breath smoking minutes, while garbage is meticulously lifted and whitely like someMATERIAL dormant dragon. More than shad- carefully hurled, while the sky slowly pales, erasing ow, less than human, the figure is wrapped tightly the last late stars one by one until none but the most around itself. There is no hint of face or hand, no persistent holds out against the harder light that is swing of arm or shoulder, as the shape advances now probing into the lower windows and beginning to past shop windows, devouring the grey sidewalk in ALL chase away the shadows of night. long, rapid paces, while the plate glass reflects the hastening, huddled form as a fainter ghost that A second car pulls up, its engine revved in im- moves, left for right and right for left, in exactly mir- patient signal to the truck driver who turns just rored cadence. enough to show that he has heard but not enough to imply that he will move. As the individual — woman, or man? — moves A small wind tries to assert itself once more, raising One by one more cars arrive, and buses, and again the dead leaf as if to intimidate these new in- the birds‘ high-pitched chatter becomes a back- truders, but its voice is lost and the leaf tumbles into ground for rumbles and roars. a garbage bag. A hunched figure clutching a briefcase and a The canopy of the sky pales and lightens, giving sub- folded newspaper hurries along the sidewalk towards stance to forms and structures, revealing shapes and a waiting bus, and climbing the three steps into the outlines, sculpting new dimensions, as less heavy warm, pale brightness, raises a mufflered head and tints of ruddy blues well up from high in the east and smiles. the frail, dying shadows flee west. Now the slightest glint of sunlight pushes be- And now at last, as if crowning them with sharp tween the tall office blocks to reflect in dazzling and sudden majesty, a stab of sunlight pierces the splendour from a high window. The mirrored glow of uppermost reaches, the first so slender beam, a the beam bathes the grass of the municipal gardens, bright herald. a spotlight illuminating the stage of a play, a specta- cle poised to begin. The dawn. A black cat, caught in the bright beam, pauses Shadows take fright, chased from their last in the act of licking its paws, blinks up at the shaft of stronghold, the deep doorways and narrow alleys be- unexpected light, and washes behind its ears. A soft tween shops as slowly, irresistibly and inevitably, the COPYRIGHT ball of handsome fur, it surveys the street, a man slim sunbeam takes on strength and power. passing in front of the entrance to the gardens, two The impatiently waiting cars have now grown to women chatting to each other as they wait at the bus a fidgety line some five or six long, edging forward bit stop, someone outside a café unlocking shutters and by bit, until at last the truck is full and the driver pulls grills, and decides it is time to greet these early com- ponderously around, allowing them to squeeze past muters with a purr. and move hurriedly forward to the traffic light which Slowly it stands, stretching first back then legs, turns amber then red at that moment, as if conspiring©2020 and saunters to the bushes dividing the municipal with the truck to keep people from reaching their des- garden from the awakening street. A graceful leap, tination. A few cars which have been patiently await- like a black-on-green dancer, carries the cat over low ing their turn at the light begin to move off from right shrubs to the railings, its personal exit. It pads along and left, passing each other or changing lane in polite MATERIALthe sidewalk to the women waiting at the bus stop. By succession, one grey sedan moving straight forward, this time several more people have arrived. The cat another, dustily brown, turning left through the wide rubs between legs purring and meowing, irresistibly space between two oncoming vehicles, until green cute. moves up to amber. They draw to a halt and give way ALLto the perpendicular traffic which rushes off almost Another bus appears followed closely by two before the light has changed. The low, murmuring more, which are held up for a brief moment by three combination of their different engines forms a contin- cars that cannot decide which should have the right uous background to the chatter of birds, a volume of of way. The waiting passengers shuffle nearer the sounds that inches ever upwards and upwards as the bus stop, shaking their heads and commenting to sunlight inches down the façades. each other on how silly people are, pushing reckless- jam and pats of yellow butter, as the waiter runs with ly forward, almost blocking the entire road, and im- the bread between cars, trucks and vans whose driv- peding each other‘s progress. At last the buses can ers gesture in annoyance at silly vehicles which are reach the stop and the doors open in a friendly ges- trying to push in as if they owned the road. ture to welcome the new passengers. The sidewalk fills and overflows with people, The car drivers, held up at the light, watch and shake large and small, tall people and short, men and wom- their heads as they reflect on how silly people are, en and schoolchildren all brightly decked in jackets pushing forward like that and blocking the bus door, and jeans, suits and skirts, and as the sun‘s warm impeding each other‘s progress. rays drop inexorably down walls and posts, filling the street with light and smiles, the walkways pack to ca- A latecomer rushes up, colliding with a small pacity and beyond so that the crowds jostle and table the café proprietor, Mr. Fibonacci, has just set push, seethe and sway, the multitude of their conver- up on the sidewalk. He flings a hasty apology over sations hardly audible as engines rev and horns his shoulder, runs on quickly and bangs on the clos- blow, high sounds and low, shrill and deep, tootlings ing door of the departing bus. The proprietor shakes and brayings, drivers trying to outwit each other in his head, comments to the waiter how silly people their manœuvrings to gain some precious feet of are, rushing around in that way and upsetting things. headway in this bumper-to-bumper ritual. The waiter nods his head in agreement, although he COPYRIGHT did not quite catch the proprietor‘s remark because a And now at last the sunshine reaches the van was blowing its horn loudly at a careless black street, bathing all the pedestrians and vehicles in a cat which was wandering across the road. bright and happy glow, shining in shop windows, re- flecting off richly blue cars and funny yellow hats, A first customer arrives and sits down at the bright red buses and pretty green dresses, clean small table, ordering a large cup of black coffee and white trucks, shiny beige shoes, limpid lemon tea, hot toast. The café proprietor suddenly remembers in cheerful old bicycles and hot brown toast, and a nice a panic that there is no fresh bread and the waiter ©2020little black kitty that is curled in a ball, its tail around hurries off to the bakery, weaving between cars that its nose, in the sunniest spot in a corner of the bright are moving slowly because of the denser traffic. More and pleasant municipal garden, sleeping. customers arrive and the proprietor rushes around making coffee andMATERIAL tea, getting the pots of strawberry KNOW WHAT MOM? legs encased in soft stretch flannel kicking and stretching as I held him. He was so light. I could have Sandy Day carried him forever.

Jay-jay was curious. But she was also aware that My baby boy. I have to ALL this wriggling little creature, wrapped in a mint col- hold the memory of oured jumpsuit, might swivel the spotlight off her and him with gentle hands. onto him if she showed too much interest. She didn‘t His wide deep eyes. want to bring him home from the hospital. She want- His determination to MEG O’HARA ed the baby in the next crib, the one with the pink live. His strong little blanket. ―Know what, Mom?‖ she asked for the millionth time den under layers of guilt. She was as faithful as an that day. I was losing interest in what she thought. ocean. I was a cheating lover who‘d found some- There would be no more recording of her vocabulary body new. on a list on the fridge. I got her a snack and watched her splashing in the ―Look at this, Mom,‖ she said, and spun on one foot, bathtub, making silly faces at me as she poured wa- like it was the most exquisite pirouette ever per- ter from a tiny china teapot. I dried her with a towel formed and deserved a rapt audience. and watched as she ran naked across to hall to the bedroom. I have to hold this memory gently because it‘s hid-

culiar viscous clamminess that has Quinlan wiping her hands down the front and sides of her purple gown in disgust. The Raven‘s eyes glow iridescent in the dark. The girl feels her way down the ever-turning shaft. Soon her leather slippers are sodden, her hands are numb from the cold.

There are peculiar sounds, swallowed by the stone and her heart pounds in her chest. The well is malo- dourous,COPYRIGHT a peculiar gassy scent like rotten eggs. The dank place is alive with fungi and mold and rot. To- gether they create a sluggish perfume that perme- LINDA PAUER ates Quinlan‘s nasal cavity and clings there with un- THE WELL OF STAIRS fortunate tenacity. The carved balustrades support large arched open- Jeanne Faria ings, and some of the balusters are ornately carved Center to the necropolis is the Well of Stairs. A mas-©2020with grotesques and faces captured in varying dis- terpiece of ancient engineering with wide stone plays of fear or agony. Quinlan loses all track of wedge steps that form a helix, corkscrewing down- time as she circles her ever-deepening descent. The ward past sight. On these megalithic barrows that Raven is now hopping alongside her. have kept the dead for thousands of years stands a girl. Quinlan pausesMATERIAL on the precipice of the well, She hears it‘s the brittle tapping of its claws as it staring down into the dark. Few ever venture down, hops down onto each riser, click click click in the and none return. Her friend the Raven walks along darkness. top the stone well, his black nails tapping. Down the ALLendless spiral is her prize. A ring left to her by her The cold has settled in a deep gripping bone chill that mother. She knows the Imp has taken it. has taken her from head to toe. She stumbles often, ―Come on,‖ says Quinlan. cresting wave after wave of freezing misery. The She begins her descent of the dark cold of the mortar of the stones glows a cold blue, illuminating a well. The Raven flutters and settles onto her shoul- landing of impossible size, and Quinlan sees that the der. The steps and walls are slick and wet with a pe- next portion of the stairwell is missing. ―Go back, Girl! You‘ve been poisoned! The walls of with grave intent. this well are slick with it.‖ Says a voice in the dark. Quinlan raises her hands to her face and squints at ―Caw‖. It says. ―Caw! CAW!‖ her palms. They are inky black. With a flap of its massive wings it is gone, flapping ―The poison is already at work. Turn back now, upward and then diving down, an angry death spiral there is a vial waiting for you atop the well. Continue into the open maw of the well and deep into the and perish.‖ The voice trails off downward. Cold and earth. Quinlan fights sleep. Exhaustion and enchant- exertion have her exhausted. She is shaking with ment have her eyes closing against her. rage and frustration. She knows in her bones the voice in the dark is the Imp who stole her most valued The Raven is sitting atop the well wall, considering treasure and carried it down into these abysmal her with the tilt of its head when she opens her eyes. depths. She breathes deeply and turns and begins It bobs its head in greeting. Beside it, her mother‘s her ascent. ring glints in the late afternoon sun. Quinlan grins. As promised atop the well is a small wooden vial. ―There is no honour among thieves,‖ she says happi- Without hesitating she drinks the contents, which are ly. as bitter as her defeat. The Raven is staring at her

ChristmasCOPYRIGHT was disappearing into the abyss of memory. The excitement of meals, visitors and prep- arations were beginning to fade for the adults but the thrills remained for the children. The new toys Santa had left behind transformed every waking moment into fantasy play.

This was wartime; a snowy Toronto winter during ©20201944. Gasoline and basic foodstuffs were heavily rationed. Dad was away a lot, serving special duty overseas on troop ships as medical officer. Our child- hood world was far removed from the realities, except when grandfather was trying to listen to wartime MATERIALnews. This required a loud 'shush' that silenced noisy play.

Mother announced that my mother and my younger brat brother and I were to accompany Ida, ourhouse- ALLDEBORAH PERCY keeper cum control officer, on a train trip to Ida's home farm near Argyle for the rest of the holidays. A BOYHOOD NEW YEAR This was not only terrific news but magic. I had never visited this wonderful place in winter. Karen Watson

In summertime, the farm provided us with lots of fun, So, road maintenance required horse-drawn plows. so much to see and do. I was shown how to put two When roadways became quite snow-drifted in and old car wheels together on a length of pipe. This be- blocked, horse-drawn sleighs became the rule. came my very own automobile which was Complete with bells and minus 40 temperatures. pushed all over the farm. There were cattle to be Steam would rise from the horses' flanks and their herded home. Milking time was busy and there was muzzles and great hairy legs would be covered in the usual fascination with the operation of the cream frost and snow. All magic to a small city boy, insulat- separator. Everything was done by hand except for ed from reality within the posh Toronto neighbour- the water system which was operated by a hit-and- hood of Rosedale. I didn't want to ever go back to miss motor lifting the hand pump up and down, filling Toronto. This rural life, though harsh, thrilled and en- the barnyard cattle trough. The two draught horses tertained me every moment of the day. with very large feet, though gentle, seemed like mon- The families and neighbours in this farming commu- sters as observed by a small boy. nity were ever so warm and kind. The food and won- We all got on the train at Toronto's Union Station. derful smells of the old houses, heated with From this point on we went backward in time. The old cookstoves strategically located to provide warmth to passenger coaches pulled by steam-driven locomo- some of the house. tive proceeded northward toward a little place called NewCOPYRIGHT Year's Eve was still several days away and I Blackwater where we had to change trains in order to guessed that my mother would probably be preparing arrive at Beaverton, Ontario. The trip seemed to take for the big 'Hogmanay' at home, which meant an all- forever and certainly I was ready to explode with an- night party for lots of guests. After a few drams with ticipation and excitement; but arrive we did. Auld Lang Syne, father would mellow and tell stories, An early Model A Ford met us at the station driven by wonderful stories. This I would miss. But here, it is one of the farm neighbours near Ida's folks. The old 9:00 PM and past my bedtime. Rural Ontario stayed car saw double duty, carrying farm produce, calves©2020 on Eastern Standard time which meant one hour lat- or pigs, feed or people. I was fascinated by the fact er than Toronto's time. Not tired, just full of cookies that the ignition switch was a piece of wire, twisted and excitement, I was directed upstairs to bed... together. This periodically shorted out on the dash- The old farmhouse had early, rudimentary wiring board, creating a huge spark. This was 'quite neat' to which meant that each room had a single light bulb watch! MATERIAL hanging from the ceiling with a pull chain switch. Im- And snow, tons of it! Driving to the farm meant driv- portant rooms upstairs had a long string attached to ing wherever you could find a clear space, and not these early fixtures and conveniently threaded all the necessarily on the narrow gravel road. The chains on way downstairs so that a good tug on one of the ALLthe tires hitting the fenders, the car lurching off the strings provided light upstairs. My bed was piled high road, through fields and across ditches and back on- with homemade quilts which upon climbing into bed to the road; travelling where the snow was less deep, made me disappear into dreamland. following other vehicles' ruts. Oh, what fun! This wartime era meant a scarcity of men and material goods. The next morning, crackling sounds awakened me. bour's farm in order to start their tractor. Of course we Wow, was it cold! I could see frost on the windows all went. and walls and my nose belonged under the covers. I The two tractors were lined up in a neat row with a could hear somebody downstairs relighting the very wide belt slung between the two tractors' power cookstove and sounds coming through the stovepipe take-off pulleys. The Fordson's motor sputtered when that came up through my room. I had to go to the the pulley started to rotate against its load. Alas, the bathroom...major problem. I wouldn't use the thunder- belt was slipping and I was instructed to go to the mug under the bed which meant dressing and going house and get some honey. Oh, man, I hated this part outside to the little very cold building with two holes of life, but I went. I was shy, yet asked the lady for and a door that didn't close properly. This mission had honey. She seemed to be more interested in who I to be done, so off I went. was and did I want some milk and cookies. Anyhow, The morning was full of gladness with the early sun old Archie came running up and got a pail of honey, turning the blue snow quite orange. The chores had wondering what happened to me. been finished with the steaming cattle going back into Honey was applied to the belt and the process started their places in the stable, watered and milked. I want- again. The Fordson chugged and the other old tractor ed to go down to the barn but a big country breakfast heaved. A great sheet of flame shot out of the stub- awaited my brother and I. The old kitchen felt wonder- born tractor's motor. Archie offered that it would do fully warm and the food tasted so good; all home- COPYRIGHT the old bugger good. Now there were two old belching made. Ida brought city milk which embarrassed us asynchronous tractors vibrating and roaring. To make kids. She would not allow us to drink whole fresh farm the morning perfect, we all went into the neighbour's cow's milk, but we did anyhow. kitchen to warm up with tea and homemade bread. I We dressed and dashed outside, onward through said that it was a neat trick with the tractors. I was no deep snow; to the barn, to the driving shed, to the longer a small boy, but now one of the men. workshop, to the henhouse. Everything had to be New Year's Eve was so special to me as I got not on- seen and felt all at once. I found my old car wheels ©2020ly to stay up, but was accepted as part of the family. but they were buried in snow. An old buggy in the hay That night there was old-time music... mandolin, fid- mow had to be sat in, bounced in and pretended to be dle, banjo and piano, stories and singing harmony... driven to town with the help of an imaginary gallop- all the old songs. If only the night would last forever. I ping horse. I heard a motor start. Off we went to the MATERIALfell asleep. I don't know who put me to bed, but my driving shed to discover the old Fordson tractor had dreams of such love and acceptance are still with me started up. Apparently arrangements were made to forever. Happy New Year! take this bellowing clanking monster over to a neigh- ALL STREETS Laughing cries F.C. Janes Echo‘s insulting Alone in the world Brick by brick the ceiling falls Running the alleys

Looking behind The suits on the street Seeing the shadow Ignore people like me That forever chases Just get a job and don‘t beg for free

People turn only to laugh For me Ashamed, embarrassed, all overwhelming A hand out isn‘t free No one to help as we are the helpless The suits don‘t realize

Every handout steals the pride from what‘s left inside

Leaving me Torn and bare With my hand out MARK I bleed on the streets RUBINOFF COPYRIGHT

THE BERRY BOG

Jeanne Faria

August arrives recently orphaned, to his aunt and uncle‘s cranberry farm in Northern Ontario. For the many long years of his life, August would sometimes©2020 imagine his mother and father floating in the crush of scarlet red bog berries, their bodies white and swol- len and stark against the cranberries that surrounded them and seemed to keep them afloat. August had THELMA SELLERS lived in a large MATERIAL concrete apartment complex in the east end of Scarborough. On weekends his father sand pounds of brute negligence and August found would give him a twenty-dollar bill and send him for himself living with his odd complicated yearnings on chips and liquorice to the convenience store that was his aunt and uncle‘s berry farm. right in their building. They would spend the day His Uncle Duncan leaves an olive green pair of bib ALLwatching movies and playing video games. Then overall style hip waders outside his bedroom door. everything changed. A transport truck with a driver These mysterious rubber boots become the keys to drunk on lack of sleep and using his smartphone to the kingdom. A kingdom of marshy boggy land and update his Facebook status crushed his parents ponds and thorny bushes and the skeletal outlines of against the concrete barriers of the 401. Eighty thou- birch and miserly pine that only the north and its feeble sun can grow. having encountered her.

The wader‘s fit to his under pits and his feet swim in- ―Hop aboard!‖ With minimal difficulty August sits cross side the moulded rubber boots. He begins his explo- -legged on the bow of the boat like a masthead cov- ration, easing through the turbid waters of the bog, ered in rubber. They slowly glide over the cold still surrounded by cedars and pines that smell like cinna- dark waters. August hears a loud ―Errrraaaaaah‖ mon on hot humid days. Another child might have sound, oddly cow like although he had precious little had a harder time acclimatizing to the bugs and the contact with cows if the truth were told. bush, but even floating amid the dense waters of his ―Moose‖ Philomena says with authority. They float in own loss August fulfils the number one requirement of place on the still waters, listening to the lament of the his species: He adapts. moose. August only understands his parents‘ disappearance ―A moose can swim for over 19 miles,‖ Philomena like a clap of dark magic. Here one moment and states factually. She passes August a sandwich, tak- gone the next. August imagines a tidal wave of dark en from her knapsack and wrapped in ruddy coloured murky water and viscous red berries that carried them butcher paper. August unwraps his and takes a bite: away. Somehow death and the bogs and the harsh bologna, cheese whiz and bread and butter pickles, northern Canadian landscape become enmeshed. her signature dish. August eats happily watching lazy He is staring in amazement at an enormous dragonfly cloudsCOPYRIGHT overhead. when he turns to see Philomena Hart for the first time. August has his eighth birthday on the farm only a She navigates expertly on a flat-bottomed pirogue. short few weeks after his arrival. His aunt makes him August, who had not seen another living person since a triple-decker cake made with crushed cranberries coming to live with his aunt and uncle, stares at her and whipped buttercream frosting. August stares as with a mixture of wonder and hope. Philomena stops she cuts a sanguine slice and lays it out on a Dixie the small boat the moment she spots him. They re- plate for him. Last year his parents bought an ice gard each other intensely for a moment, the bullfrogs ©2020cream cake from Baskin and Robbins. They had eat- sounding loudly around them. en the entire cake on their balcony in Scarborough ―You‘re August. I‘m Philomena. You‘re 8. I‘m 11,‖ watching the sunset over Lake Ontario and the Toron- she said. to skyline. The cake was tart and sweet, like a jolly rancher covered in rich icing. His aunt, satisfied with August nods, theMATERIAL facts seemed to check out. She the approval she sees on his face, nods and turns sticks out a hand and standing regally, like a queen back to the kitchen sink, where she quietly weeps and on the Nile, while August makes his way toward her. does the dishes. His Aunt Carlene was a tall, feverish- She seemed nonplussed that he was wearing his ly thin woman who was nothing like the rotund signa- Aunt‘s lemon yellow dish gloves. They ride up past ture on her Christmas and birthday cards implied. ALLhis elbows like formal eveningwear and are a part of August felt her fear and her nearly uncontrollable sor- his turtle catching gear. row and imagined that she was a dark well that would ―Catch anything?‖ she asks. erupt from some pressured place inside her, explod- August shakes his head; equally terrified she would ing in a geyser of grief. turn and disappear into the bog and nearly delirious Since she had come to pick him up at the emergency through the patio doors comes a slow steady rush of foster home in Toronto, she would look at his profile, scarlet red cranberries, flowing by the millions around at his dimpled hands, into his eyes and at those times him, and through the railing and over, falling like a her mourning for her sister would consume them. crimson waterfall. The cascade of red berries is end- August imagines a tidal wave of dark murky water less and August sees the skyline and blue waters of and viscous red berries carrying them all away. An- Lake Ontario fill with berries until it turns blood red. other child might have had a harder time acclimatiz- The entire horizon and the orange sinking sun is a ing to the bugs, and the bush and the odd pensive blur in the sanguine sky. August awakes hearing the silence of his new home, but even floating amid the sounds of loon on a nearby lake. He feels different dense waters of his own loss August fulfilled the num- somehow, as if his fear and sadness had spilled over ber one requirement of his species: he adapted. the railings like the cranberries in his dream, his grief a wake behind him, spreading endless waves to dis- That night August dreams he is standing on his old tant shores. balcony in Toronto, holding the cold steel railing, his feet between the square spindles. From behind,

LIFE Your heart will break with the loss of a lover or friend. Catherine Babick You can‘t escape the eventual end That‘s why it‘s called life. COPYRIGHT So you must live it the best that you can. Not everyone can be everything Your friend has the looks and the brains. So you think. Their life behind closed doors can still stink. But still inside they are a mess and you will never even guess, they are struggling with feelings and stress. No one knows for sure why we are here, ©2020 The reason is still quite unclear. We go through life wondering what it is all about some have faith and some have doubts . Some have faith in their religions and others in the stars, Some are waitingMATERIAL to find life forms on mars. Life isn‘t fair some will say that nothing comes easy and they always pay. Others it seems are a lucky lot They get the breaks and are not the have nots. ALLThey have so much more than all the rest It seems that they are truly blessed. Wanting it all is most people‘s dream Not getting what they want makes them scream. But until you know what they have lived through. all you can say is I wish it was me too. WAYNE SMILE Your feelings will get hurt now and then SHRED OF DOUBT from a lucky glimmer caused by the moon- F. C. Janes light. However the distance between Corson and his weap- Corson stood looking up at the giant beast. The on was still too great. coarse fur that covered the creature‘s body stood on Reaching to his belt end. Both stunned by surprise to have run into anoth- he pulled a small thin er living creature in this God forsaken swamp. Their stiletto dagger. Meant eyes locked on each other, human to creature. The for stabbing between beastly creature shook the dampness from it thick fur. the openings in armor Sending a spray of moisture up into the air creating not for slaying a mon- an outline of itself against the moonlit sky. Then, like ster. an agreement had been made in silence both man and beast sprung to life. Snarling, the beast‘s sickly yellow Violently the large best leapt at Corson, cover- eyes locked in on him. ing all the ground between the two of them in one Drool ran from be- powerful push. Diving out of the way Corson felt a COPYRIGHTANNETT WESTLAKE tween the beast‘s blast of air against his cheek. Proof of how close the teeth. Dripping like an hourglass counting down how creature had come to popping his head of his shoul- much time Corson had to live. Driving forward the ders. beast slammed into Corson knocking him to the Corson, doing his best to roll gracefully. End- ground, the dagger sent flying. The only thing that ed up sliding on the slick grass of the swamp and saved Corson from his doom was the metal breast- landed hard on his side. A wave of muck splashed plate he wore. Pops and cracks echoed between the into the air as Corson‘s body now held the space©2020 the beast‘s heavy breathing. The weight of the beast was muddy water once had. His face half covered in the slowly crushing the metal of his breastplate and forc- slimy mud he turned to see the great beast rear ing him to sink into the soft mud of the swamp floor. around in his direction. The beast‘s claws digging The beast‘s jaws snapping at Corson‘s head but for into the swampyMATERIAL ground giving it expert balance. some reason the killing blow never came. Corson felt Scrambling to his feet, Corson looked for his like he was being treated as a toy and that the beast sword that had fallen from his grip. Panic washed was taking pleasure in this torment.

over him like a sickness, never had his sword fallen The ground rose up around him. Water started from his hand. He remembered his fingers had to rise uncomfortable high with potential to hinder his ALLwrapped around the hilt as the beast attacked but he breathing. Ribs cracked and broke under the weight had no memory of what had happened to it after his of the beast, the breastplate failing. Reaching up with life saving slip to the ground. his hands in a last chance effort. Corson found one Dread filled every second that he couldn‘t locate his of the yellow eyes and dug his thumb as deep as he sword. Finally spotting it not far from where he stood could in to the socket. While being mindful to not get his hand to close to wet metal fill his palm he rolled on to his back and the creatures maw, which was filled with razor sharp thrust the blade up. Hoping like before the beast killing tools. would try to pin him to the ground.

The beast roared in pain and reared up and off With the beast already in flight. It could only Corson. This was Corson‘s only chance and he look on helplessly as the blade sunk into its chest to knew it. Not wasting a second of what freedom was the guard. The weight of the beast almost causing given to him. He pushed up and out of the soggy Corson‘s arms to fold over but he held strong. Each hole rolling away from the beast and towards his muscle, each tendon loaded to the max. sword that lay on the ground begging for his touch. The two of them laid there like lovers bent over Scrambling to his feet well the beast was dis- each other. Corson‘s chest heaving, the stink of the tracted by pain, Corson ripped the armor off his chest beast was over powering. He could hear the deep letting it drop to the ground, each and every breath shallow breaths it took. The beating of its giant heart he took sent pain though his chest. But his sole fo- was slowing but not daring to move until he was sure cus was getting his blade to his hand. Hearing the it was dead. Using all that was left of his strength beast roar behind him Corson dove for the blade that Corson rolled the beast over and took a seat on top sent bolts of pain through his body. Sliding through of it. He hung his head and took a deep painful the muddy water his hand stretched out reaching for breathCOPYRIGHT before saying, ―never a shred of doubt.‖ his only chance at seeing tomorrow. Feeling the cold

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