W49

Editorial
After a series of setbacks and delays, it is my pleasure to announce
the belated arrival of the 18th edition of Langara College’s W49
magazine, featuring award-winning submissions of poetry,
fiction, and creative nonfiction written by Langara students.
Having had the opportunity to read, to closely reread,
and finally to proofread these winning submissions, I feel a
great sense of pride in the quality of writing that has been
produced by the students of this college, both from within
and from outside its Creative Writing programs. There are
stories, poems, and essays in this edition to rival the quality
of writing found in any more established anthology.
Thanks has to go first and foremost to the authors of
the winning submissions, who worked diligently throughout the revision process and responded with patience and
understanding through the long period of publication
stasis. Thanks also to the many students, past and present,
who took the time to submit their work, and made the
selection process a difficult one (yes, we like that).
Particular thanks to Darren Bernaerdt of Langara’s Department of Publishing; without Darren’s above-and-beyond
the call of duty commitment to finding the necessary graphic
design and layout talent, this current edition would not have
been possible.
Thanks to Jenelle Fajardo-Lavery, the aforementioned
talent, who has been a pleasure to work with and who has
made this a thing of grace and beauty!
Thanks to my constant judges of literary merit and to all
people who assisted, past and present, in the production of
W49: Peter Babiak, Deborah Blacklock, Kina Cavicchioli,
1

Caroline Harvey, Tess MacMillan, Trevor Newland, Kathleen Oliver, Thor Polukoshko, Erin Robb, Roger Semmens,
Geoffrey Smith, and Jacqueline Weal.
Thanks to all the readers of W49. Dig in and enjoy!
Guy Wilkinson

2

W49

Table of Contents
Creative Nonfiction
First Prize:

“The Cures” by Susanna Firley.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 7

Second Prize:

“Margaret” by Alex Joukov. .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 16

Honourable Mentions:
“Silent Night” by Laura Birtwhistle .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 20
“What I Didn’t Say” by Susanna Firley.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 30

Short Fiction
First Prize:

“The Canyon” by Ryan Land.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 34

Second Prize:
“Be Prepared” by Duncan Parizeau.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 42

Honourable Mentions:
“Enter Copenhagen” by Jessica Poon.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 49
“The Sparrow” by Russell Chesham .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 57

3

Poetry
First Prize:

“O2” by Carly Stone.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 61

Second Prize:

“Environmentalists” by A.J. McGown. .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 64

Honourable Mentions:
“Brief Usage of a Personage” by Jessica Poon. .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 66
“Sixteen” by Carly Stone.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 67
“Buried” by Duncan Parizeau. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
“Evening Light” by Laura Birtwhistle.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 69

Postcard
First Prize:

“The Portage” by Russell Chesham.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 70

Second Prize:
“Kafka’s” by Duncan Parizeau .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 71

Third Place:

“New Mother” by Kyle Arnould. .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 73

4

W49

The Cures
First Prize
by Susanna Firley

“Everything has been figured out, except how to live.”
-Sartre
Please tell me you feel it too.
You know, that thing.
That thing that tightens your stomach and makes your heart
pound. The thing that makes you forget what you have been
doing for the last half hour. Or hour. Or day. The one that
comes blazing in on the heels of the non-stop thoughts of
the seven billion people and their seven trillion thoughts.
It’s the political sleaze. The unending unease. The ethics
of having babies and of getting degrees. It’s the selfies, the
non-organic cheese, the refugees. It’s the inability to comprehend infinity and the necessity of rhyming incessantly.
Yes- the Thing! It finds you at the bottom of your quilt cover
with the buttons done up, grabbing at your pajama pants and
shrieking hysterically. It is the very same Thing that runs
your head into the Sartre quote on your bedroom wall because you just cannot stand the unanswerable: “How to live??
How to live?!”
Well. Sometimes you can stand the unanswerable. But
these are the bad days. Mostly, you just want to close the
blinds and bury your face with your mattress. Get in under
there nice and snug and sleep for awhile. Or, maybe for you it’s
different. Maybe you’re in the earlier stages and it’s enough to
do things like, say, defrost the freezer. And wash the ceiling.
5

Creative Nonfiction

And the air vents. And the underside of the refrigerator.
Maybe it’s enough to just buy a new shirt, or get a tattoo
or a muffin, or reinvent your hairstyle with your kitchen
scissors. You know, the Quick Fixes. But first let’s focus on
some gems that really last. Some true prime distractions.
The kind of distractions that almost make you forget that
you ever saw the inside of your quilt cover.
So fuck it. Take a vacation. Actually, do yourself one better- move away. “It’s just.. I don’t know. It’s something about
this . . .City.”

Enter: Cure One - Geographical.
This is a good one. Effective! But note: there is a durational
maximum of about three months with this method. Not to
be messed with. Make it any longer and the dirty wall of
your hostel may start to look like a mighty place for your
head. The duration epiphany may be discovered when you
audaciously attempt the permanent geographical cure, give
away everything and move to Montreal. It may be further
discovered when you find three thirty-something French
Canadians on Craigslist and just move on in. And it’s great!
Until you realize that going to the kitchen to get some water
means having an awkward social interaction with a different
person in broken French. Every time. And until you find
the pot that you’d been cooking oatmeal in the past few
weeks is being used to sanitize Melanie’s Diva Cup. Yes, it
takes about three months before you get an increasing and
undeniable need to find a quiet place to do your shrieking
without someone knocking on the door. Your roommates
say it scares them, or whatever.
6

W49

So you find your own place shortly after (a Cure within
a Cure) and spend a month rearranging your new curly ficus,
single Ikea chair and paper lamp you bought in a set off of
Craigslist. The chair squeaks even when you’re not sitting in
it, and the lamp smells a little burny when it’s on. But the ficus
is nice so it goes in the center of the room. Then the window
sill. Then next to your bed beside the lamp where the chair was.
Then back to the center of the room. - Note: It is normal and
entirely encouraged to sprinkle the Quick Fixes throughout
this process. Just practical maintenance. Okay, where were we.
When the dust starts to settle on your ficus and everything
starts to look just like it did at home, and then you wonder
what was the point of moving anyway and suddenly you’re
having spontaneous sweats and heart palpitations and oh god
you recognize this place, so you focus focus focus on the small
things and spend the last six months in Montreal carrying out
the task of replacing all of the old screws in the electrical sockets
in your apartment with new silver ones (two per pay cheque),
and filling the cracks you previously made in the wall on the
really bad days. But you know something must be working
because you have been sleeping on top of your mattress and not
under. (Thank you new screws.) And you have been making it
to yoga classes and that somehow seems to placate the inherent
itchiness of being for the moment. You are so inspired by one
of your instructors (she clearly did not have the Thing), that en
route to move back home to Vancouver, you sign up for a one
month Yoga Teacher Training program in Massachusetts and
take a little Southern detour.
Note: this is a big pointer and a Combo Cure Pack. You
get the Geographical Cure and you get to fill your mind
with things you didn’t know of before that stop you from
thinking about the cheese and sleaze, and you do it even if
7

Creative Nonfiction

it puts you in debt that you don’t have a plan to get out of,
which brings us to the discovery of our next Cure.

Enter: Cure Two - Educational.
Educational. You are going to find your thing. Your passion.
Really explore your pure potentiality (thank you, Deepak).
You are going to be a yoga teacher and fully immerse yourself
into life only as it is in this moment and observe each breath
that comes in and out of your nose. YOU are going to learn
how to guide others to do the same. In thirty days. Yes, in
thirty days you will find enlightenment and then you will
know that the answer to the unanswerable is where it was
all along, simply, right here. It is irrelevant that you are a
legitimate glossophobe, because the yoga students will not be
focusing on you, they will be focusing on their breath. Even if
you stutter. Right. And you will learn to overcome! And only
when you learn to overcome and get your teacher training
certificate do you realize that practicing yoga and teaching
are really not the same thing. And only then do you realize
that many of these yogis are convinced that wearing certain
pants gets them closer to Nirvana, and you have no patience
for these fucks, and it is considered really uncouth to yell in a
yoga class unless you are all practicing some cathartic group
exercise that is guided by the instructor and is in place to
enhance your feeling of oneness with the sweaty people next
to you. Then it’s okay. But you notice that they all look pretty
happy in their stupid pants. Happier than you, at least.
So you leave Massachusetts and come back to Vancouver
because well, you miss this place and you decide you’re going
to stop flaking about and do something both meaningful and
practical, and if you could do this th3n the Thing won’t even
8

W49

know where to find you anymore. This is how the Educational Cure works. You sign yourself up for a bachelor degree in
something very reasonable, like nursing. And this time you’re
really going to do it and it will be glorious when you are done
because finally you can start your life. You can’t remember a
time where you have felt so good and had it all figured out.
So clear. You are going to do something. But after about
three months you begin to get a little symptomatic.
You start to think.
A lot.
“Wow . . .this school is really rigorous. Eight courses a
semester?? Why are these old nursing instructors so hostile?
It feels like boot camp. I thought nurses were supposed to be
icons of compassion. Ugh . . . I wonder if they have cookies in
the cafeteria . . . If it’s true that infinity truly does not end, and
matter cannot be created or destroyed, then this pen light, me,
and that large blind man swaying in the ceiling lift are made
up of everything that has ever been and ever will be. Near or
far. But if we are all connected, than why don’t I feel like I
belong here, in this room, with these people? I haven’t heard
a word of what the instructor was saying . . . Oh . . . What if
this is not my authentic path. Is this really Me? Do I have a
Me? Maybe this is not good for my pure potentiality.
Or maybe it’s just . . . school.
So, you see the shrink before you drop out (just to make
sure) and you tell him about the infinity of space and all of
your insignificance coinciding with your unending need for
fulfillment. You don’t tell him about the Cures because you’re
hoping he will say something that will blow your head off
your shoulders and erase the Thing from existence entirely.
Something that will answer the How and the Why. He adjusts
his glasses, taps his clipboard with the eraser of his pencil and
9

Creative Nonfiction

announces, “What you are experiencing are obsessive ruminations about questions that do not have answers.”
(duh.)
He sends you packing with a diagnosis and a bottle of
pills that clear out all of the thoughts in your head except
the ones that loudly confirm that life as you know it actually does not have meaning. You wonder if this guy knows
that killing off his patients one by one would ultimately be
a detriment to his career. Then you wonder if that was his
subtle answer to the How and the Why. But something in
you decides that it is in your best interest to stop taking
these pills. Maybe it’s best if you just get another café job
and work for awhile. Maybe school is just not your thing.
Geography: has failed you. Education: has failed
you. But this next one, this one is deep. It is warm
and fuzzy and so good you don’t need to eat or sleep.
It is the classic Cure.

Enter: Cure Three – Romantic.
You know it, you love it. Well, you love it for awhile. Until
you don’t. The most risky of all Cures because unlike the
former two, this actually involves another person and their
squishy feelings. “Fill me up! Sweep me off my feet! Convince me that I am not alone and you are not alone and
there is a point to all of this and that this life is inherently
beautiful and it has nothing to do with the where that I am
or the what I am doing or how educated I am. It has to do
with you. You and Me. And I have never met anyone like
you before.” Please Note: this last bit is very important for
the Romantic Cure to be effective. You may not date anyone who is similar to anyone else you have dated. This will
10

W49

turn the lasting effects of three months to a few weeks. If
the last love’s favourite band was The Smiths, the next one
will be Chopin or Vanilla Fudge. Yes. Maximize the time
by really finding someone different. Not the safe someone
who you met in a café, who stays in on Friday nights to
water his plants and to get high on fiction novels, weed
and witty anecdotes. It’s the other someone, who you also
met in a café and who is significantly older than you. Who
takes you out, who is covered in tattoos and who plays bass
in a marginally successful rock band. The same someone
who drives you up to the Mount Seymour lookout at night
to see the sparkling panorama of the city with a bottle of
sweet red wine, and who wraps you up in a wool blanket
and tells you that he loves you. The someone who makes
you forget everything and everyone else important in your
life when he asks you to move away to Victoria with him
three months after meeting each other. And you agree because he is the new, the shiny and the flawless Someone.
The different Someone.
Until different becomes the new norm, and suddenly
the tattoos of the skulls you so liked before seem undeniably
cheesy, and the rock music you subjected yourself to starts to
sounds bad. Really bad. Even the wine starts to taste a little
bitter. He’s been more quiet than usual and you begin to feel
highly symptomatic wondering why things are not the same
anymore while you’re busy shoving your head into the crack
between your mattress and the wall. And then he looks at
you and you look at him like it’s the first time. You both
then realize you don’t know each other from Adam and he
doesn’t know what you mean when you talk about the Thing
and how could you possibly be with someone who doesn’t
feel it too. But he pulls the pin first and you explode into
11

Creative Nonfiction

oblivion with rejection. It is only when you have put yourself
back together, that you are forced to forgive him when you
realize that he wasn’t just your Cure, you were his. So it’s not
you, it’s me. No. It’s not me. It’s just . . . everything. I need
something. I need . . . a drink.

Enter: Maintenance Cure –
The Quick Fix.
The well known and well loved backbone of the Cures: The
Quick Fix. This little gem is definitely worth mentioning
due to it’s prevalent usage and wonderfully instant gratification. It comes most often in the form of a consumable,
like a drink or a muffin or a few vitamins or a joint, or a new
electronic thing or a new bag to carry your new electronic
thing. Note: this can be a rather costly habit as it usually sets
off a chain of Quick Fixes that once you start is very difficult
to stop. It usually goes something like this: “Ugh. What an
awful day. I feel terrible. Ugh. I need something. I need . . . I
need a (insert fix here). This is great! I feel better. Maybe I’d
feel even better if I got a (insert fix here) to go with it.” And
repeat. Much like the muffin or the new bag, the satisfaction
evaporates shortly after acquisition. However, these Fixes
are great when you don’t have the means to move across the
country, or become an expert at something, or find a new
love to lean into.
You might be thinking, “this is great and all but, you
know, nothing seems to last. Three months is all we get?
There has to be a better way. What if . . . What if we didn’t try
to cure what ails us. What would happen if we just invited the
Thing in, for tea and a snack, or something. Then we could
have a real look at it. Maybe it’s not so bad!” I would say –
12

W49

First? It is bad. It’s the worst.
Second - okay. I confess. The Cures? They are not perfect.
But where does the expectation come that things should be
perfect? Maybe the sense of working towards something is
really where the value is and it not about what you get in
the end, because so far it seems that it doesn’t matter what
you get, the Thing finds you anyway. If you asked someone
like Viktor Frankl, he might tell you the same, and he would
know. Frankl was an Austrian psychiatrist during World War
II who was confined for three years in a Nazi concentration
camp. I would go so far to say that his Cure options at that
point were pretty limited. Nothing to eat. No place to go.
People dying all around him. The grounds could not be more
fertile for cultivating the Thing. But he made it through and
wrote a book called “Man’s Search For Meaning”. When he
observed what happens to people when they are stripped of
all they have, he noted that for him and many others, it was
the hope that kept them alive. The people who gave up hope
were the people who perished. He insists that life itself is
simply a quest for meaning and that the meaning itself is
inherent in the quest. Frankl quotes Nietzsche: “He [or She]
who has a Why to live for can bear almost any How.”
What he said.
So take these Cures. Or, invent some new ones. Find
some hope. Go on a trip. Cut your hair. Grow it back out.
Fall in love or fall in lust. Get a new shirt. Learn something.
And then do it all again. Cure yourself, even only for the time
it takes you to think of the muffin, get the muffin and then
eat the muffin.
Head, meet life. ◆

13

Creative Nonfiction

Margaret
Second Place
by Alex Joukov

Margaret was the first customer to ever enter the front
doors of Heirloom Restaurant back in 2012. We watched
from the bar as she tottered up the two marble steps, leaning her entire 82-pound body on a polished wooden cane.
Before the glass door could swing shut behind her, Margaret was already halfway to the bar. Her stride swift and
determined, gaze firmly fixed on the shiny bottles lined
up neatly on the liquor shelf. As the natty nonagenarian
got closer to our curious glares we became transfixed by
the salient details of her appearance. The woman’s petite
face was so heavily dusted with white powder that from up
close it looked like she could’ve spent her morning quality¬testing doughnuts at the Hostess factory. To contrast
the ghastly pallor, Margaret’s cheeks were ablaze with a
feisty rouge, creating the magical irony of an age inappropriate colour scheme colliding with the picture¬perfect,
stereotypical ‘old lady’ look. This chromatic ensemble was
neatly framed by firey ginger locks cut into a short edgy
bob. A blinding twinkle of green gems could be caught
glistening in the centre of each dangling lobe whenever
one of the lamps hit it just in the right spot.
It was early October and the cold hadn’t set in yet. In
fact, it was an unseasonably warm day and most people
were using the opportunity to take out their summer garments for one last hurrah. Margaret, perhaps due to her
14

W49

frigid physique, figured that a balmy 17 degrees was perfect temperature to cozy up in a fluffy mink pelt, which
hung around her weedy neck, its back paws helplessly
dangling as the little maw tightly clung on to its own
bushy tail. The most undignified afterlife. Yes, I thought,
this woman is wearing an animal carcass around her neck,
and yes, this is a vegetarian restaurant.
As she eased herself into a wobbling bar chair with
veteran deftness, Margaret’s shaky index finger rose like
a stubborn broken arrow to point in the direction of a
stolid Hendrick’s bottle. “Neat, please” she croaked after a
few moments of steadily shaking her finger in the bottle’s
direction and smacking her lips in preparation. Bartending
wasn’t my job. I was supposed to be in the back tempering
chocolate and beating meringue. In fact, I only came in for
a short meeting, I wasn’t scheduled to work at all - kitchen
or bar, but something about this enchanting old debonnaire propelled me to dash for the gin and christen one of
the brand new glasses before anyone else had the chance.
I quickly realized that there was some sort of measuring
procedure I failed to apply -the serving looked infelicitously generous, my co-workers looked uncomfortably
displeased. Margaret, on the other hand, once again raised
her bony finger like a rusty loaded cannon.
“Don’t be shy dear. Little more”. I grinned. Feeling
like a proud grand¬kid getting away with a mouthful of
candy thanks to grandma’s vindication, I splashed a little
more gin into nana’s tumbler.
From that day on, Margaret has been a usual fixture
at the restaurant’s bar every 9AM. And then again at 12.
And again at 3.
15

Creative Nonfiction

Since my job keeps me in a little hot room with the
stoves and burners, away from the candle light and the
neatly dressed clientele, I seldom have the opportunity to
impulsively seize bottles and pour drinks. Though occasionally I poke my head around the corner and sneak a
peek in the direction of Margaret’s prefered corner. If the
time is right, I can spot the top of her crimson coiffure
and horn rimmed glasses brimming over the bar. I learned
through the grapevine (mostly from the bartender, the
people’s therapist) that Margaret lives near by, in one of
those nice heritage apartments. She has two cats; one is
the hairless kind named Christabel. No information was
given regarding the other feline but I can only assume
that the poor thing resides in the shadows of its purebred
companion (unless of course it happens to be a Longhair
Persian that answers to Prescilla).
I’m probably miles off and at least a little bit beyond
impolite but I like to imagine Margaret, in between cocktail hours, kicking off her Mary Janes, winding up the
gramophone, and chain smoking Winston cigarettes out of
a hand carved ebony cigarette holder until it’s gin¬o’clock
again. Since most folks tend to wither somewhat after a
long 80-90 years of life, losing their initial zest due to
poor health or just plain exhaustion, I wonder what the
still sprightly Margaret was like in her youth. Though her
vivid composure seems to have withstood the test of time I
feel like what we see today is merely a fraction of the hoot
Marge’ used to be. She strikes me as the type who enjoyed
a night out dancing before the tremors got in the way of
the lindy hop. I bet she shared a few drinks with Hemingway at Café de Flore before her dwindling spine decided
to make ends meet. I also heard that she sued the nearby
16

W49

grocery store after slipping on a castaway strawberry and
dislocating a hip, so I guess she’s still spunky enough for
judicature. Now the owner is considerably more conscious
of rogue comestibles around 9, 12, and 3.
So here we are today. 3 years later, 2016 ruffling in the
autumn’s foliage, and the clunking of Margaret’s aureate
rings on her cocktail glass can still be heard if one listens
closely at the right time. If upon entering the Restaurant I
am confronted with the pungent odor of ambergris I know
Lady Maggie is still at it. I’m afraid to count how many
bottles of Hendrick’s she must’ve worked through during
this time but I definitely hope that her liver can handle a
few more. I’m sure my boss hopes that it can at least withstand the ones she consumes at his establishment, because
according to her suing track record, if she survives the
organ failure his bank account is going to take a hit. ◆

17

Honourable Mentions

Silent Night
by Laura Birtwhistle

In the picture there are three little girls. I am the youngest
child; about two and a half my mother says: “Six months
in Bradford, and one year in Scotland, 1958 - 1959.” A
Professional Engineer, that is to say a marine engineer,
Dad worked for the Federal Department of Transport,
most of the time based in Ottawa, a steamship inspector
considered senior by the time he retired. In 1958, he went
to England with a colleague, Herb Buchanan; they had
set out to study nuclear engineering on ships.
Keighley consisted of old, brick row houses, each with
a chimney, advancing the hill on a cobblestone street.
There is a smokestack in the distance, at the bottom of
the street, in the picture. Dad’s grandfather worked in
a foundry. I had always been intrigued by the vision of
molten iron cast in a mold. The girls face the camera,
oldest to youngest: Janice, who would be eight; Karen,
five; and me, Laura Ann, which was the name my father
used instead of just Laura. My mother says, “He chose
all the names, and was looking forward to having little
girls.” Dad’s Aunt Nora squats down to hold me in her
secure arms, lest I might run away, as I frequently did,
according to Mom. The man behind the children, who
wears a suit and tie, is Dad’s youngest uncle, Uncle Leo.
An older boy in front of him, who could be eleven, wears
18

W49

a dark tie, on a white shirt, and knee length socks, with
his arm draped over Janice’s shoulder.
Dad’s mother, Annie, and father, Harry, grew up in
Keighley. All the aunts and uncles lived here. He had
always been fond of his grandmother on his mother’s
side. Of Irish descent, Margaret Fowler’s maiden name
was Sherlock. She died in 1943, while Dad was still in
the prison camp. He had told of the sadness felt to lose
his grandmother so far away 1 from home. It was to this
Yorkshire town, not far from the town of Howarth, where
the Brontë family had lived in the mid-nineteenth century,
that Dad brought his young family from Canada for a visit.
The oxygen mask over his mouth is there all the time.
When I arrive that morning he is breathing, like gasping,
in a steady rhythm. I sit by the bedside as if on a watch,
with my hand reaching out to him. Twilight and the doctor comes in. He says it would not be much longer; “he is
going to pass away,” he says emphatically. My mother sits
in the hallway, talking to the doctor, as if begging that he
might still pull through. The doctor continues to insist
the inevitable, and Mom looks defeated.
It was a beautiful service, and everything went just
as we wanted it to. The day before, a Sunday, we had
donated the flowers for the church, to commemorate my
father. Mauve and yellow daisies, with white and pink
carnations, rested on the altar, and in the chapel. A small
table on the chancel, with one red rose in a vase, and
flowers in another vase on the floor, supported my father’s cremated remains. The resurrection candle burned
brightly behind the brass urn.
Mother had an anodized photograph made, which
was put into a silver frame that had a large cross to one
19

Honourable Mentions

side with what looked like crystals in it. At the top of
the picture, Dad had neatly printed his name: JOHN
BIRTWHISTLE and below this, on the right, the date:
1946, followed underneath by GT. Crosby, which, one
assumes, would have been where he was when the photograph was taken. In the black and white picture he wears
a naval jacket with black tie, and his right sleeve graces
three white naval stripes. Between his two fingers he is
holding a cigarette.
Recently, I learned from his memoir that in 1946 he
signed off a ship in London, and returned to his mother’s home in Crosby, near Liverpool, where he stayed for
three weeks before going back to sea.
Dad completed the final version of his memoir in
1995, calling it The Irish in Us: A Family History. He
wrote about both of his grandmothers, giving a portrayal
of his early childhood, the tale of his mother and father,
and growing up with two sisters, Elsie and Ruth. A significant aspect of his account covers his experience in
the British Merchant Navy, and capture at sea by the
Germans, followed by five years as a prisoner of war, until
the end of World War II in May 1945.
He sent out an earlier version of the memoir in 1992.
Spine bound, it had a green construction paper cover, upon
which he had written, in bold, black marker, The Irish In
Us. This connotation pertains to a generation of the family
who had travelled from Ireland to England, in the early nineteenth century, to settle in Liverpool, Lancashire, in response
to the “demand for labour” and the “expanding industrial
revolution.” On the inside he signed each copy, personally
addressed, in large handwriting, blue ink. Excitedly, I read the
story, upon receipt, and found it difficult to put down.
20

W49

I loaned my copy to a friend who lived in Victoria.
She had been interested in reading my father’s life history
too. This original version was never returned. Mary Jane
and I had met in high school in our graduating year;
therefore, my father, in a way, remained a backdrop of
our friendship.
In April 1996, my grandmother died, my mother’s
mother. In March 1997, I began to keep a journal. There
were two times, April to June 1996, and the first half of
1997, when I sent Dad a volume of letters. I trusted my
father, finding a voice in which I could communicate with
him alone.
Unfortunately, Dad did not keep my letters. By then,
however, I had begun the practice of photocopying the
letters before mailing, as an archive. It was my mother who
carefully organized and preserved my correspondence, like
that from Nigeria in anticipation of my return to Canada. I felt so helpless the night Dad died, in his room at
Vancouver Hospital, lying emaciated in the bed. He had
been placed on comfort care. I remember his lifeless body,
after mother and I rushed back, Karen and Janice still at
the bedside. There were so many things left unspoken, a
feeling of irresolution, like he had simply just slipped away.
For years it seemed like he was at the sidelines to
my life, although his presence remained central to me.
During the last two months at the hospital, I sat by his
bed, or beside him when the nurse would sit him up in the
chair, holding his hand, watching him breathing while he
slept, waiting for moments of consciousness.
How many times have I seen Dad stumble?
Dartmouth, Nova Scotia reveals a flood of impressions—not memories, for I was not yet born—of Dad’s
21

Honourable Mentions

life, as though opening a window onto a vast, and distant
landscape. I see a windswept hilltop overlooking the sea,
and I recall vividly, as I had listened, to the soft voice of
my mother, talking to him in his last hour—he seemed
to hear, but we could not know for sure.
The clockworks began to turn, gears fitting together,
in perfect time, precision. Mother gained a lightness, as
we sat together, head to head, on the bus. She was smiling. I see her in her wedding dress, with the large train
extending out in front, her bouquet of carnations, with
ribbons, her pristine smile. I think she could see that in
her mind too.
Dad is smiling, a big smile, looking towards her; they
are in love, you can tell, and excited about each other,
engaging, enjoying conversation; giggling, with a serious
sensuality, and finishing one another’s sentences.
Six months later mother is pregnant with Janice.
I became fond of the way Dad told his stories, to
provide us with strength and courage. Sitting on a bench,
on one of our walks from I.G.A to Cavell Gardens, the
seniors residence where he then lived, just around the
corner from us, he began: “I went into the shipping office
of Lamport and Holt, [upon return to Liverpool] while
studying for my first class engineer certificate, and asked
for my wages. They would only pay my wages if I agreed
to serve two more years with the company. I became argumentative, and left the office vowing never to go back
there again.”
He introduced me to the books by Helen Forrester,
who wrote in particular one about her childhood growing
up in Liverpool, called Tuppence to Cross the Mersey.
22

W49

In 1996, he mailed me a book called Shoes Were for
Sunday, by Molly Weir, another book about an autobiographical childhood, which I believed to be in the north
of England. Only, as I pick up the book now, from where
it is kept in a keepsake plastic box, with some of Dad’s
cards and letters to me, it says on the back that the setting
for Molly Weir’s childhood was “The asphalt jungle of
the Glasgow tenements.” The forward to the book reads
as follows:
‘What strange, mysterious links enchain the heart,
to regions where the morn of life was spent.’
JAMES GRAHAME

When I was in grade three, the teacher asked us to write
about our father’s work. I cut out the picture of a ship on the
cover of a magazine my mother gave me. Later, after we had
moved to Ottawa, and I was older, I remember him coming
through the door, home from work, wearing his suit. I can see
him standing with outstretched arms to greet me with a hug. He
always has his shirts laundered, and there is often a neatly placed,
wrapped, stack of shirts off to one side of the entrance space
because they are being delivered. “Where are my slippers?” he
asks searchingly; naturally, I am wearing them to shuffle around
the house in his big, warm slippers, which to me are like shoes.
He soon notices that I have them on my feet, “You
have my slippers!” he says.
I take my feet out, one after the other, and push them
over to him, “Here are your slippers Dad; they’re nice and
warm for you.”
After going upstairs to change his clothes, he sits
down in his favourite chair to read the newspaper.
23

Honourable Mentions

Around the same time, Dad and I went out together,
hand in hand, on a summer’s day to the pet store on Bank
Street to buy a budgie. I picked out the budgie bird, a
light blue colour with spots on its cheek and stripes on its
head showing that this was a young bird that could learn
easily to be friendly, and even talk. We had bought a birdcage on a stand, from the newspaper classified section,
and set it in the corner by the piano, putting in water,
seed, and a sprig of millet. The bird liked to admire, and
smooch, with his vision of himself in the mirror. I called
the bird Pepper.
The bird learned to talk, and was soon saying, “Pretty Pepper; Pretty Pepper,” “Kiss me,” and “Hello.” He
flapped his wings excitedly during his bath under the
running water in the kitchen sink, where I put a Ferris
wheel bird toy for him to play on. We often left the cage
door open, allowing for Pepper to fly around the kitchen
and family room, and to sit on his favourite, up high
perch on the top of the curtain rod, whose vantage would
be to look down upon us.
Sadly, after six months of his feathered friendship, one
afternoon my younger brother went to open the front door, at
which time there was a heavy snowstorm outside. Pepper had
come out of the family room, flew to David, and perched on
his head; and then seconds later he alighted and headed out the
door into the snow. I had not yet come home from school, but
felt heartbroken to learn that the bird was gone. We couldn’t
even surmise as to what had happened to him, because he was
nowhere in sight, and perhaps had frozen to death.
I cried and cried on my father’s shoulder once he came home.
Then, it was decided that we would all sit down for Chinese
food, so we wouldn’t have to cook, as we all grieved our loss.
24

W49

Not long afterwards, we got another blue budgie bird,
but this one was sickly, and did not live long; but, finally,
we brought home yet another Pepper who, although he
never learned to talk, remained my companion for the
next five years.
While practicing the piano, Pepper would sit on my
shoulder, swaying fervently to the music, or land on my
head, and sometimes run up and down the keys following
my fingers with a “cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep,” making
a racket. The bird gave out endless joy, and sometimes
my mother would peek from the kitchen to see what was
going on. Cleaning the large cage we now had in the
family room, placed on the plywood trunk Dad built for
me, became my responsibility; I put in a mock plastic bird
that swung this way and that on the perch, and a ladder
that enabled Pepper to climb down to the gravel paper at
the bottom of the cage where he could graze on stones,
and drink water from a plastic trough.
Before I went away to first year university, my brother
moved another bird into the cage to keep Pepper company,
thinking that the bird would want to have a friend, and
not be lonely. But, by the time I saw him again, Pepper
had become increasingly sluggish. In my second term at
university, I received a phone call from my mother, who
told me in a hesitating, soft way, that Pepper had died.
The life span of a budgie bird I had to concede, but my
heart dropped.
About ten years before my father died, he sent me
a paperback book called The Brontës. Inside the front
cover he wrote to me about the book, and its relationship
to the landscape of his childhood relatives “who were
then passing on.” He described the “windswept Yorkshire
25

Honourable Mentions

moors,” barren land where “one could do little but raise
sheep”. He referred to the books of Emily and Charlotte
Brontë, surmised upon the hardship of their lives, and the
fact that their father long out-lived his children.
Drawn in by my father’s written thoughts, his sophisticated voice of wisdom, I read the book without delay,
and underlined many passages in it, or marked them
with brackets, in green ink. An avid reader, Dad liked to
look for “good books” in second hand book stores, and
browse around to see what he could pick up. He gave
me a number of books, that intermingle with mine on
the bookshelf, the Lusitania, Laugh With Leacock, and
Vimy, by Pierre Berton, to name a few, and I came to the
realization that he may have nursed a longing for me to
share his interests.
Dad went into Arbutus Care Centre in March of
2009, being no longer able to look after himself in his
residence. Every day, I travelled a long distance down to
the home on the bus. I walked with him down the halls
while he pushed his walker, to the end of the corridor,
where we would sit beside each other in two chairs for a
while, reminiscing. “Auntie May died of breast cancer,” he
recalled the day we discussed the topic. As a practice, in
the evening we watched shows like Mash on the overhead
T. V. in the lounge.
His eyes got bright to the mention of going out for
fish and chips, a delicatessen just across the parking lot.
Frequently, when the weather got warmer, I took him out
in the wheelchair to the nearby Starbucks coffee shop.
We talked, and one day he observed, “You don’t have any
friends.” The music performances in the dining hall delighted him, and I sat beside him when a band would come
26

W49

to play for the residents. His favourite tune, Lili Marlene,
filled him with nostalgia for his wartime years, and brought
tears to his eyes.
Christmas carollers now stand in the hallway, just
outside the hospital door; as they sing the first song, Dad
wakes up. Naseem, the night nurse, says, “They come every
year.” As they are singing Silent Night, he opens his eyes
wide, as if he’d just discovered something. They sing more
songs, and I am trying to sing along—at least for the chorus—while my hand rests on his shoulder. I imagine him
envisioning the time he was in the prison camp, some place
far away from home, or maybe he was home. ◆

27

Honourable Mentions

What I Didn’t Say
by Susanna Firley

I suppose with a title like that, this could go many ways.
This could be written to the bus driver, who I watched
close the doors and drive away from a very pregnant lady rapidly waddling in the rain to catch the bus. It could be written
to the other bus driver who took off so fast that an elderly
woman, who hadn’t yet found a seat, fell back from standing
and hit her head so hard on the ground she lost consciousness. This could be written to the young guy with the baseball
cap, who cradled the old woman’s head until the ambulance
came. Perhaps to my third grade teacher, who transformed our
freezing and leaky portable classroom into a massive bustling
ship, where he was the quirky captain and us his mates; who
replaced traditional rubric with class-wide games of Japanese Rock Paper Scissors, magic tricks and wickedly funny
Roald Dahl books.
But I don’t have a lifetime of what I didn’t say to those
people, so this is written to you.
And what I didn’t say, is thank you.
Thank you for teaching me to look up in the fall for
migrating geese and to look down in the spring for fuzzy
ducklings nibbling at my toes. To listen listen listen to the
hush of a snowfall, and to feel for the squeak and crunch
of snow under my boots. For teaching me to swim in the
lake, especially in a windstorm, and how to float on my back
when my arms and legs get tired.
28

W49

For showing me how to crochet while you drove: one
hand hanging a cigarette out the window, the other hand
guiding my hands and the hook, your thighs cradling a beer,
your right knee steering the wheel. I’m still impressed.
For stealing into the snowy night and lifting a Christmas tree from the Save-On Foods parking lot after hours.
Ingrid and I woke up in the morning and followed the trail
of needles up the stairs and into the living room. A note
pointed to a plate of mini cupcakes. It read, “Christmas IS
coming! Gone to sleep, will be up soon.” We sat with our
feet under the tall tree and ate the cupcakes, silver strands
of tinsel dancing between our toes.
For teaching me how to drive standard in old Rolf the
Volkswagon Golf, the grey tank with the red door. When
I took a wrong turn and came flying down that hill into
the merging lane onto the highway, you kept your cool. My
hands ached into the next day from clutching the steering
wheel so tightly. Thank you for teaching me the value of
the therapeutic drive, and that the car is the best place to
SING, loudly; to YELL, loudly; to cry, freely.
For wracking up your credit at that little internet
café, buying us croissant wrapped smokies and Dr. Pepper when we hitch-hiked into town. It was worth every
uncertain moment. I peeled off the layers of the croissant
and ate them one at a time while the three of us walked
back up the hill to catch our ride home.
For showing me how to fold the ends of a box together
so it doesn’t collapse, and how to pack a house up in an
evening when you’re in a pinch. For showing me how to
identify the things that made our houses into homes: the
lace Dutch curtains from your Mom, the wooden carved
Naai box you kept your letters in, the Nag Champa incense
29

Honourable Mentions

and the smell of Murphy Soap drying on the floor. How
to never get too attached to any one place by seeing the
mystery in the next.
For reminding me, with every headache, every muscle sore, every sad day, of the cure-all of the hot bath.
I still use it.
Thank you for picking me up at four in the morning
from that dude’s place who invited me over because his
dad was gone for the weekend. Thank you for not asking
me what happened when I sat on the floor of the shower
in the basement trying to scour the booze and shame
from my skin.
For stopping for the man who sat in tatters on the
cold cement underneath the sky train while everyone else
walked past. For holding his hand, for crying for the open
sores on his face, for giving him your last five dollars.
For teaching me of the darkest night of the soul,
when you stared helplessly into it and we sat helplessly
on the end of your bed, or outside your door, or in our
own beds. You laid still beneath your heavy quilt, month
after month. What I didn’t say is that I’m sorry I didn’t
understand what it meant when you said your skin hurt,
too much even for a bath. And I’m sorry it wasn’t me
who didn’t question you or make you feel badly when you
stopped going to work. It wasn’t me who continued to sit
on your bed in the years to follow.
Thank you for bringing us to your first A.A. meeting,
where I listened to strangers share their most shameful or
broken or prideful moments. For showing me that disease
does not discriminate against race, gender, age, profession
or personality type. For showing me what it means to
have both courage and humility when you stood up, year
30

W49

after year. For demonstrating the power of community
when we all closed the meeting with our hands joined. I
still can feel the touch of my palm to the palm of someone I have never met before.
For last October, when you sent me The Letter: six
pages of hand trimmed Hilroy tightly folded into three,
patchouli-stained and written in capitals, demanding of
me to speak; to curse you finally, to question you, to blame
you and then to be done with it. Dispel the silence and
be able to share a phone call without feeling a knife in
your chest. The letter ended with a quote: “Forgiveness is
not forgetting, it is letting go of the hurt,” and enclosed,
a photo of you holding me as a baby. I realized then the
most important thing I didn’t say, was what maybe would
have made the difference.
To you, who cradled and sang to my 28 week old
wrinkled body and syringe-fed me when I was too weak
to suckle. You, who loved me, every day of my life, from
whispers beneath a heavy quilt, from elated messages on
my answering machine, from surprise cards in the mail,
to the warm insides of your mama bear hugs.
W hat I didn’t say over twenty-seven years, was
thank you. ◆

31

Short Fiction

The Canyon
first place

by Ryan Land

They had been paddling for a few hours, long enough
for the fog of the morning to burn off and now, in the
bright light of late morning, details of the surrounding
countryside jumped out at them. The river they paddled
was the last and largest in a network that drained large
portions of three provinces and two territories into the
Arctic Ocean. Its banks were steep, cut from the deposited
sediments of a vast glacial lake that would have reached
the mountains silhouetted on the horizon. Pete was glad
that he and Gabe were paddling the river and not that
ancient lake. If they had that much flat water to paddle,
they would never make it to the ocean in time to hitch
a ride home on the barge that sailed supplies between
Cambridge Bay and Inuvik.
They had lost some time to swimming, fishing, and
relaxing early on in their trip when the weather was still
warm and the rivers clear. Now they were paddling from
first light to twilight to get back on the planned schedule,
and muscles they thought had hardened over the last five
weeks hurt anew. To distract himself from the ache, Pete
looked again towards the peaks. The rolling land from
river to mountain was a multihued carpet of reds and
yellows and oranges; tundra groundcover coloured by
early frosts. He had never seen fall colours like this. Not
even in the hardwood forests of the East. He let his eyes
32

W49

run across the skyline of the distant hills and then follow
the river bank downstream, looking for indications of the
canyon that the map showed was close; a sudden flash of
black iridescence caught his eye. There on the bank was
the trunk of a stunted tree standing like a black obelisk
against the riotous colour of the shrubs. Gabe saw it too
and stowed his paddle as he reached for his camera bag.
“That’s something, hey?” said Gabe, raising the camera to his eye, “The only tree for miles and it burns in a
wildfire. Crazy.”
“I know, right? It found the only possible spot for
growing and then, zap. The struggle is over.”
Pete steadied the boat in the current and watched with
a detached envy as Gabe snapped shots of the beetle-black
tree against the flaming colours. This was what Gabe had
come for. Spectacular shots of remote places that people
rarely saw. Gabe was a freelance photojournalist and this
trip had already been optioned as a story for a popular
outdoor magazine. It was the reason they were here. As
Pete looked on, he imagined what these hills had looked
like when they were actually burning and thought that,
even now, he could smell a trace of the charcoal and creosote carried by the lingering moisture in the air. In this
wilderness, it was the smell of both violent destruction
and impending renewal. Gabe packed his gear up and they
leaned forward into their paddles once again. Finding each
other’s rhythm, they pulled hard for the canyon ahead.
The river narrowed and picked up speed as the banks
pitched up to near vertical. Boils and violent whorls noisily
marred the surface of the water, the product of the river being
turned on its side, as deep now as it was previously wide. They
were both alert and excited, pointing out tricky sections to
33

Short Fiction

each other, even though they knew from the map that there
were no rapids bigger than class ones through this section.
The canyon was a narrowing, but not enough of a vertical
drop to create any serious white water, and so Pete took the
opportunity to examine the cliffs they were passing between.
They were chalky yellow, with rocks and unsorted boulders
of various sizes suspended randomly throughout, like nuts in
a fruitcake. In places, Pete could see how the rains of decades
past had caused sections of the cliffs to slough away, leaving
sloped piles of detritus at the base of the bluffs that spread
out to create mini beaches. He had a sudden desire to land
the canoe and climb to the top of the canyon edge and he
broached the idea with Gabe.
“I don’t know,” Gabe replied, “we’ll lose at least an hour
to that. Our days are numbered, bud; we gotta make the coast
in less than a week. If we don’t make that barge, well...” The
implication dangled in the air as he let the thought trail off.
“For sure, man, but we have this figured,” said Pete.
“We pulled a hundred and twenty klicks the other day.
That puts us ahead, right? And I don’t know about you,
but my pegs could sure use a stretch.”
Gabe looked up at the cliffs and Pete could almost hear
the calculus of his mind as he worked through his obligations,
deadlines, and responsibilities and weighed them against the
fun and distraction. Pete saw his opportunity; “Imagine the
shots you could get from the top of that bluff. A bird’s eye
view of our little red canoe tucked in against the foot of a cliff!
That’s money, man! I mean, I’m no photo editor, but right?”
“Ha. No, you’re right. It’ll be a beaut’. You’re right about
the stretch too, I’m not even sure when I last felt my feet.”
They picked one of the erosion zones where they could
see a couple of routes that (I looked less than vertical.
34

W49
They figured they could scramble up one of these without
gear. They landed their boat on the tiny beach at its foot,
pulled it up clear of the current and secured it. Gabe grabbed
his camera bag, slung it over his shoulder, and then added
a lens bag to the load. He looked to Pete and Pete gestured
grandly towards the bluff like an English butler in a parlour.
“After you, sir.”
The joke hid a strategy. Pete had honed his climbing
skills with years of practice, but he knew Gabe had spent
nowhere near the same amount of time on the steeps. He
wanted to be behind him so Gabe could find his own way
and not feel pressured to keep up. It was a good decision,
Pete thought a short way up. What had looked like wellpacked sedimentary deposits was actually little more than
dried mud. Solid seeming hand-holds broke away under
pressure, releasing puffs of line; silty dust hung diffuse in
the air, filling their mouths with the elemental taste of
silica. Pete wished he had grabbed a water bottle out of
the canoe and glanced back to gauge the worth of going
back for one, but the sudden sound of sliding jerked his
focus back to the slope quick enough to see Gabe reach
for a rock to arrest his fall. The rock broke most of Gabe’s
momentum, and he was able to regain control, but it had
been wrenched free of the ground and now bounced toward Pete. In an instant Pete lowered his shoulder, cocked
power into his legs, and gambling all on his one handhold,
swung his free arm outward, twisting on his planted foot
so that he ended up facing toward the river, watching the
rock until it hit the thin verge of beach with a wet thud.
“Uhm... rock?” said Gabe, twisting the climber’s
warning for a bit of humour.
“Yep, sure was. You alright?”
35

Short Fiction
“Well, this’ll cost me a bit,” said Gabe, holding up a
palm striped with dirt-edged scratches.
“For sure man, that is gonna sting when it hits the
water.
You good? Wanna keep going?”
“Yeah” he said with a slight pause, “I’m good.”
“Listen, man, if you’re done I can take the camera up
and get the shots. No need to push it.”
“Nah, really, I’m good. Let’s go.” Gabe turned and just
before he started to climb said, “Climbing!” still playing
out the mountaineering conceit.
“Climb away!” answered Pete.
As Pete watched him, he realized that he envied Gabe
more than a bit.
Admittedly, Gabe had put in the time to get a global
politics degree then a photojournalism diploma, and that
was more classroom time than Pete would ever be able to
stomach. Now though, Gabe was freelancing for national
newspapers and pitching adventures to outdoor magazines.
He had somehow realized what it was he wanted and then
gone about securing it. For Pete, that whole process was a
mystery. He was comfortable living in the moment and that
sort of mindset was good in the mountains or on the river; it
helped you make sound, safe decisions. On the other hand,
it wasn’t the sort of life philosophy that secured you your
dream career, or a lasting relationship for that matter. So,
when this was over, there really wasn’t much to go back to.
And then Pete realized it wasn’t that he envied Gabe, rather,
he resented the fact that Gabe was looking forward to being
done, to moving on to the next thing. Pete didn’t want this
trip to end. Here was where he was at his best.

36

W49

Just below the top edge of the bank, they were brought
up short by an overhanging lip of root mat and topsoil.
To get by it, they had to tug and claw at the roots, dislodging the soil until it was no longer overhanging. The
dirt swirled around them in the updrafts coming up the
slope and stuck to the sweat of their arms and foreheads,
and the resulting slick of slimy mud made them look like
elemental beasts. They were stumbling golems formed
from clay and bent to a singular purpose.
At last, they heaved themselves onto the cliff top and
sat on the ground catching their breath and soaking in the
view. It was magnificent. The kaleidoscope carpet of colour
rolled across the tundra to the foot of the distant mountains where it broke like a wave and swept part way up the
slopes, dispersing in tendrils and patches. Gabe wiped the
mud from his hands and arms and, choosing a wide angle
lens, went to work trying to capture the immensity of the
beauty. Pete got to his feet and walked down the bank a
short distance to where a boulder stood with its base lightly embedded in the dirt. He marveled at the forces that
had brought this rock here, dropped by a glacier, exposed
by erosion over thousands of years, to stand waiting to fall.
He put his hand out to run it over the smooth stone and
crispy lichens and was struck by an idea. He walked back
to Gabe, who was now on his belly pointing the camera
down the cliff, snapping photos of their boat.
“So, I have an idea,” he said.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Well, that rock we dropped made a pretty impressive
crater in the mud, and I was wondering what kind of hole
we could make if we rolled that big daddy down,” he said
pointing back to where he had just been.
37

Short Fiction

Gabe sat up and turned to look where he was pointing and instantly began to grin. “Oh, for sure! You are
speaking directly to my inner nine year old,” he said as
he began packing up his camera gear.
They walked over to the rock and surveyed the scene,
figuring what they would have to do to move the stone that
was twice the size of both of them combined. They found
a couple of small stones and, with these and their boots,
began to dig around the base where it faced the river. Once
they were through the roots of the low shrubs growing all
around, the lip of the bank fell away in sizable chunks.
“I think if we both leaned into it hard now, it would
go,” said Pete.
“Yep, let’s do it.”
They positioned themselves on either side of the
boulder, planted their feet and set their shoulders. Pete
could feel the temperature difference between the sunny
side of the rock and the side that had been in shadow all
morning, and for some reason the juxtaposition thrilled
him. Gabe gave the word and they strained in unison. For
a second nothing happened, and then incrementally the
stone began to shift.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Go!” shouted Gabe, stepping back
as momentum took over.
The boulder was moving now and would fall for sure,
but Pete continued to push from his side until it was
airborne and he had fallen to his knees at the edge of the
cliff. The boulder went end over end and made contact
with the dried mud bank, digging deep and seeming to sit
motionless for a fraction of a second before continuing,
angling away from them, on its downward trajectory.
They both startled at a gunshot crack. Their rock had
38

W49

struck another embedded in the bank and the force split
it in half down some ancient fracture or fault line. Pete
shouted wordlessly and threw both his fists into the air
above his head. One half of the stone spun straight down,
throwing off rock chips and clods of dirt as it went. The
other wobbled in the air as it flew out sideways from the
concussive force of the collision. It hit the bank again and
took another crooked bounce and in that instant both
men could see how this would end. They watched as the
rock they had set in motion flew through the dust, filled
air and smashed down on the side of their canoe. One
whole side of the boat peeled back flat and the ends lifted
as if to fold around the stone and mangled gear. Dust
floated in the air, diffusing the light and giving the disaster scene a golden hue. In this shocked half-silence, the
only sounds were the slides of pebbles and earth coming
to rest and the never-ceasing murmur of the river. Pete,
still on his knees with his hands above his head, turned
to see Gabe standing over him with a look of horror on
his colourless face. He looked up at him and couldn’t help
himself —Pete laughed. ◆

39

Short Fiction

Be Prepared
Second Place
by Duncan Parizeau

Leif and Tristan had just begun to organize our equipment into piles, while Liam and I assessed the area we
assumed would be our campsite, when we heard the car
door slam. There was just enough time to turn our attention towards my father’s car, see him toss an envelope
out of his window into the snow, and drive away. The
collective sigh that rose from our diaphragms condensed
into a mutual confirmation of the situation.
This was not the first time my father had taken the
recreation of our annual winter camping trip and turned
it into a chore. In fact, it had become a game each year:
pitting the zealous and uninitiated Boy Scouts against
their fiendish troop leader—my father— and his catalog
of challenges. The point—as I’m sure I’ll come to appreciate later in life— is to reinforce the Boy Scout motto.
The trouble is, my father is always thinking a few steps
ahead—and a few degrees colder—than us. We certainly
come out of these tests wiser and more adaptable to the
elements, but it’s hardly any consolation when we are
constantly being duped.
This year was meant to be different. Two years ago,
we had braved our first weekend without cabins; last, we
survived the infamous quintzee experiment. This year,
we’ve worn our best winter armour and packed our bags
with enough supplies to endure the worst my father and
40

W49

Mother Nature could throw at us. But, this year, like the
previous two, we are not prepared: the envelope my father
dropped contains a note informing us that we are 16km
S-S-W from our campsite. Our mood is audible as the slow
grinding of molars emits through our balaclavas. Enamel
piles on our tongues until one of us, Tristan, chokes out
a laugh and we join in unison as we realize how foolish
we were to believe we had outwitted my father. Our next
motions carry us towards our equipment as we set out on
the great trek ahead of us: Sorel boots and double-thick,
double-knit socks, were not designed for hiking.
The distance we need to cover is the least of our concerns. We are accustomed to much longer expeditions and are
conditioned to endure the added bulk in our bags. The more
pressing issue is the unfamiliar campground. While my father
has left us with a map, the sun has begun to dip below the
treeline and the temperature along with it. Also problematic,
is the lack of distinct trails. As usual, Mother Nature seems to
be working in tandem with my father and has gently placed
a blanket of fresh powder over the landscape. The only trail
that remains is the set of tire-marks my father has left, which
leads north. We do not have the time to navigate them for
risk of succumbing to exposure if they are a decoy. This means
that we will have to rely on our combined knowledge of compasses, constellations, and botany to lead the way.
Liam checks his compass and points toward the forested
area to our left. As the lightest, I take the lead so that my
steps compact the snow ahead of us, forming a trail that
will reduce the risk of tripping over tree roots. Liam, then
Tristan, and finally Leif, line up behind me single-file—
each steadying themselves with their hands on the rucksack
of the person ahead of them—and we begin our march. As
41

Short Fiction

head of the line, I only have the intensifying darkness with
which to brace myself and lurch onwards.
The first few steps are awkward and off-balance; the snow
is fine, offering little footing and the added weight on my back
of my three companions threatens to topple me. After a few
metres and with help from the growing abundance of trees,
we develop a productive cadence to our gait. A few metres
further, our eyes finally acclimate to the murky forest and we
no longer have to rely on instinct to lead the way. The weight
on my shoulders begins to slacken in unison with the tension
of the group. Our pace livens. We seem to have lucked out and
stumbled across a pre-existing trail. At our current pace, we
should make it to the campsite in a little over two hours—plenty of time to laugh about this challenge around the campfire,
hot cocoa in hand. As my thoughts drift towards this end
goal—the astringent flavour of burning cedar washing over my
palette— I crumple sideways into a small thicket of saplings.
My left ankle, entangled in a fallen maple branch, is further
contorted by Liam as he stumbles overtop of me. Leif and
Tristan manage to stay upright and hurry to help us. Tristan
lifts Liam up, brushes him off, and then my three friends turn
their attention towards me. Leif is first to look at my foot.
Without words, he relays a glance that informs the others of
the gruesome sight. Despite my extra layers, my foot is numb
and I can only rely on the group’s reaction to gauge the severity
of my injury. The boys shuffle their feet in the snow, staring at
their boots. The creases in their ski masks undulate as words
of encouragement struggle to form in their mouths. Instead of
platitudes, Liam and Leif each extend a hand and once Tristan
has untangled my foot from the branch, they hoist me off the
ground. They lean me against a birch tree as Tristan begins to
snicker. The comedy of the situation is lost on me and I lunge
42

W49

forward to slug him, when I realize what he’s holding in his
hand: the awful contortion of my foot was only a result of the
branch wrenching my boot from it. Laughter rises from our
bellies once more and roils the night air. I take my boot from
Tristan and slide my foot back inside. As I try to steady myself
in order to tie my laces, pain shoots up my leg and interrupts
the group’s amusement.

...
The pain echoes through my leg each time I try to take a
step. Leif has stabilized my ankle with a branch, while Tristan
and Liam scout the area around us, to see what obstacles lie
ahead. Though I’m mobile now, my leg can only support a quarter of its usual weight. I will have to retreat to second-in-line in
order to move efficiently, using Liam’s backpack to support me.
I curse at myself. I wonder how much my careless daydreaming
will further inhibit our progress; in the time that has passed
reorganizing ourselves, a veil of clouds has obscured the moon,
further reducing visibility. Liam informs us that a few metres
ahead, there is a tangle of close-packed, rotting trees. It would
be imprudent to continue our trajectory through there, he notes,
as we could risk another entanglement. Tristan mentions that he
has found a set of animal tracks, only a few metres west of our
planned route. They lead around the jumble of timber husks,
through seemingly smoother terrain. We lumber over to where
they intersect with our path. They are instantly recognizable:
wolf tracks. No one is quite sure how to proceed. Liam notes
that while we have read plenty about the various fauna that populate the woods of Ontario, none of us have practical experience
in hand-to-hand combat against a pack of barbarous wolves.
However, Tristan argues that my reduced mobility and the
43

Short Fiction

chance that another injury occurs outweighs the possibility of
running into hungry dogs. We must risk following the trail
around the woods. My throat stings with stomach acid as my
anxiety peaks; will my friends be able to defend me if we encounter wolves?
We follow the tracks for a few hundred metres before they
abruptly veer east. They’ve served their purpose though, as we
have made it to the edge of the thickest part of the forest and
can now travel relatively easily. This small victory is interrupted
by a prevailing wind. Without the cover of the trees, the microcrystalline air howls in our faces, filling our lungs and sandpapering our tongues. A fresh, iron-tinged mist dribbles down our
chins—its crimson trail the only shock of colour in an otherwise
monochromatic landscape, populated by the paper-white snow,
ashen night sky, and waxen tree trunks, whose limbs ache and
groan in unison with our own as we trudge forward.
Our pace grows sluggish as we begin to succumb to the elements. Despite our uncertainty of the path ahead, we keep our
eyes fixed on the white blanket of the forest’s floor, convinced it
will be our shroud. I begin to question the wisdom of my father
and the purpose of this test. While he has pushed us to our
limits before, he has always kept a watchful eye to ensure our
safety. Surely the fact that he travelled northeast, away from our
drop-off point, was simply to confuse us; he couldn’t possibly
have left us here to perish. My thoughts become clouded as I
labour to move forward along with the group. Our limbs—petrified—are cumbersome icicles that drag our wavering into a
crawl. We struggle to press on and grunts escape our mouths;
inaudible, instinctual sounds of encouragement. They are useless.
My eyelids are too heavy to keep open and the warm embrace of
hypothermia signals that I will soon face eternal slumber.

...
44

W49

I struggle to position myself in a dignified pose, a recurring joke with the troop that was now becoming reality.
The wind has finally died down and I wait to lapse into
unconsciousness. The four of us are a huddled mass, hoping
to maintain some semblance of warmth. We are still, until
a pop a short distance away rattles us. Then another. And
another. The sweet aroma of fiery pine is enough to lift us
to our knees and encourage us to move forward once more.
The crackling hymn of firewood spits salvation into the air
and we are reinvigorated by its promise of a hot cocoa and
marshmallow communion.
We use our last measures of strength to reach our destination, before we fall prostrate at my father’s feet and he chuckles
at our infantile state. The warmth of the bonfire that was started hours ago revives feeling and circulation in our limbs and
extremities. The clouds have cleared and the majesty of the
moon reveals the entire campsite to us. We are located within
a small clearing, framed by a horseshoe of towering sable firs to
the east. Westward, there is a glassy lake roughly five hundred
metres away. The area is pristine, save for the bonfire and a
cabin, neatly tucked away in the southwest corner of the campground. Our relief escalates into a chatter as the excitement
of sleeping on a proper bed overcomes us: we’ve conquered yet
another of my father’s treacherous challenges. As we gather our
equipment to store in the cabin, I reflect on this latest adventure.
Perhaps it’s merely the warmth of the campfire, but the anger
and frustration I feel toward my dad’s never-ending tests softens and melts into appreciation. We have never once failed any
of his trials and this makes me realize that he must have a deep
sense of trust and confidence in the skills we possess. I smile.
This year, he’s even rewarded our success by choosing a
campground with a cabin for us to sleep in. The expressions
45

Short Fiction

on the other boys’ faces mirror my thoughts. Excitement rises
once more in our voices and we clamour over who will get
the top bunks. My dad’s chuckle—which is now a full-blown
roar—interrupts our argument, causing us to turn toward him
with quizzical looks. He wipes the frozen beads from his eyes,
composes himself and utters a simple phrase that leaves us in a
state of numbness, colder than the hiemal elements we thought
we had vanquished.
“The tents still need to be pitched.” ◆

46

W49

Enter Copenhagen
by Jessica Poon

Reed noticed his patience for anything branded as literature receded almost entirely with the most innocuous
mention of weather or nature; it wasn’t as though he was
unfamiliar with the charm of a rose’s fragrance, nor the
nomenclature of a rose, but he really was tired of foreboding clouds and incongruously beautiful suns playing tag
team to a protagonist’s misery. Still, nothing contributed
to Reed reading less than what he hoped was the temporary loss of his varsity jacket, a mostly unremarkable
article of clothing that knew his body better than any
woman ever had.
The pockets were precisely the right size for tucking
a modest-sized novel, or even a sandwich with room for a
juice box to spare; what was more, they’d been set exactly
where his hands would naturally deign to rest, a quality
he’d taken for granted until he bought a jacket that was
more like an idea of a jacket with too-high pockets and
disruptive contrast stitching and the absence of any interior pockets, as if its only purpose was to clothe its wearer.
Reed’s last girlfriend had the habit of using the word
‘borrow’ when she meant ‘steal’ or less dysphemistically, ‘have/
keep’. When it came to cold weather, Copenhagen dressed
with the foresight of a three-year-old and the grandioseness of
a debutante. She was always in a dress that needed to be drycleaned or handwashed, which didn’t seem to be concomitant
47

Honourable Mentions

with owning any outerwear, which meant borrowing Reed’s,
who, at the time, prided himself on his gallantry.

...
Copenhagen surveyed her wardrobe like a wary detective who’d seen it all, or thought she had. There was
the guy who’d left behind a Toronto Bluejays cap that she
was trying to make “happen” with something delightfully
incongruous, like one of her too-short dresses intended
for cocktails. Well, she had cock tales. There was a Harvard sweatshirt from a guy who’d never graduated from
high school, but considered thrifting a passion; he’d been
the only bassoonist she’d ever boned. There was a receipt
on her overflowing corkboard that’d been painstakingly
uncrumpled with some bartender’s number; it had ripped,
making it difficult to tell if the third digit was a 6 or a
9. And then there was Reed’s varsity jacket, with leather
sleeves that made Copenhagen think of the weirdly comfortable ends of a sofa that you weren’t supposed to sit
on. Reed had been calling her often, which could only be
attributed to her continual requisition of his jacket. She
wasn’t exactly sure she had the cojones—the figurative
cojones—to admit she needed it to self-orgasm.

...
The arbutus trees should ’ve made more of an impression,
but all Dorothea could think of was the now infamous incident of when she’d mispronounced the second syllable of ‘arbutus’ like ‘butt’ during an interview for a gardening company.
She’d sure soiled that interview.
48

W49

What the fuck kind of name was Dorothea? Reed
remembered laughing at the quaintness of the name;
he’d always meant to change it later. He straightened
his posture, stuffing his hands in his pockets. They really were too high. He took off that ersatz excuse of a jacket
and began to do sit-ups, not bothering to count them.
He would stop when he began to sweat. It didn’t take long.
The solitude he’d always wanted felt lonely, or like it
should somehow be more monumental then it was proving to be. If he was going to finish the story, he was going
to need his jacket back; that was what was what.

...
“The only way I’d consider returning what is admittedly, rightfully yours, is if you’ll have sex with me one
last time. Seems to me it’s mutually beneficial. Especially
for you, actually,” Copenhagen said, wearing the same
expression she’d had once after juggling four pears, which
had been particularly impressive because they’d been
staggeringly pear-shaped. Pear-y good, Reed had said.
“That’s quite a proposition,” Reed said, stalling. Reed
imagined a director poking him incessantly, spit-flecking
encouragement in his ear like “Make sure your foreplay
game is strong” and “Forget the camera’s there—she
wants it; just give it to her!”
Copenhagen said nothing.
“I mean, it’s legally my possession. I loaned it to you
on a barely wintry evening.”
“But it’s in my possession.”
It was taking all of Reed’s self-control not to call her a
crazy bitch. Feminists really had ruined the joys of mind49

Honourable Mentions

less profanity with their edification. Feminists had less fun.
Maybe a blonde feminist was just the thing. He really did
want to call her a crazy bitch because he knew he shouldn’t.
It was some wretched version of coprolalia.
“Okay. I’ll do it. I mean, let’s do it.”
“You say it like you want to get it over with,” Copenhagen said in a voice that indicated she was not merely
speaking but actively complaining.
What nymphomaniac complains about how she’s
getting the sex she’s asked for?
“Only because I do,” Reed said.
“Then I’m not having sex with you.”
“But—”

...
The word ‘vagina’ reminded Copenhagen of the capital
of Saskatchewan. There was something grotesquely placelike about a body part that was, presumably, not a cartographer’s plaything, or anyone’s plaything for that matter.
‘Cunt’ made her feel like she had to adopt a rakish Scottish
accent; otherwise, she’d sound like she was being vulgar for
the sake of vulgarity. What then? Nether regions? Private
parts? God forbid, her cookie or her cookies? Friend of
the gonads? The south pole? The area where, heteronormatively, one’s dick—no, penis, another clumsy word and
appurtenance—would eventually enter? The sheer passivity in being, no, having an entrance; maybe it should’ve
been an empowering thing, to weed out who wouldn’t be
allowed inside what was ostensibly a privilege, but it only
felt like ceding to the inevitable.
50

W49

Reed had been different. He’d made her feel like she was
worthy of sculpture. Although doubtless he cared more for
his own pleasure, he was still aware that the existence of his
carnal pleasure was at least somewhat dependent on hers;
that is, he realized there was a threshold to the amount of
bullshit she’d tolerate. Not always, but just often enough so
she wouldn’t feel she was getting a raw deal—he’d kissed her
in a way that convinced her she didn’t need to be transported; that being with him was enough. More than once, he’d
used the word ‘interstellar’ to describe what she’d always felt
was her inexpert enthusiasm in kissing him back. Maybe
he’d only thought that sounded poetic, or writerly.
Reed entered her, and immediately Copenhagen dreaded his absence; he would come too soon, she would rescind
the jacket, as per the deal, and there would be no foreseeable moment that would conclude with a hearty fuck.
He might as well not’ve bothered. Well, it’d been her
idea, and what a good one it’d seemed initially, but alas,
he’d had the gall to actually accept. To get what you want;
nothing was more fearsome or damning.
He’d summoned almost a creditable imitation of enthusiasm; Copenhagen had to commend him for that.
But she felt like a grimy pan left to soak.
The first night she met Reed, Copenhagen remembered
wondering how she’d broach her amicability with him
joining her bed, but that anxiety had proved unnecessary.
“I need to brush my teeth. Why don’t you just join me?”
she’d said. She had not been referring to the mutual enjoyment of oral hygiene at all. It seemed probable that neither
of them had brushed their teeth, which was kind of gross,
but also romantic. Grossly romantic, perhaps. ‘Grossly’ as
in ‘in excess’, though also ‘disgusting’. Well, they could be
51

Honourable Mentions

disgusting together. They hadn’t even had sex that night;
they had cuddled. It had not felt like settling, or purposely
going slow; it had just been what they both wanted.
“Well?” Reed said expectantly after twenty minutes, twenty
minutes where he was probably raring to get back in his clothes,
reclaim his varsity jacket and leave her for good. There was no
cuddling. He’d spent those twenty minutes instead in silence, not
facing her, but not going out of his way not to face her either.
“It’s in the closet.”
Reed unself-consciously got off her bed. With abandon,
he removed the jacket off the wooden hanger, which clattered
to the floor. He slipped his arms in that old familiar varsity
jacket, simultaneously retrieving the hanger with a weird
grace. He was grinning in a way that had nothing to do with
her, nothing whatsoever. It was apparently possible to be
shocked by a man in his own clothes. She’d grown accustomed
to how perfectly oversized it’d been on her, the way it’d given
her street cred when she was in a dress hardly intended for
doing something as quotidian as buying lightbulbs, how it’d
been the only source of warmth she could rely on, a veritable
fireplace, warmth in lieu of actual love, the latter which she
was rather doubting she’d ever even experienced. Plus, there
were pockets big enough to make forgoing a bag a possibility.
“How do I look?” Reed asked, perhaps inconsiderately.
“You look like you.”
There was something downturned about Reed’s smile
just then; it was more like a grimace.

...
With his varsity jacket still on, Reed sat in front of his
typewriter. There was no sartorial excuse to hold him back now.
52

W49

Reed changed Dorothea’s name to Dorothy and then
decided to change her sex altogether; Dorothy became
Timothy, and then, in a giddy moment of what could pass
for inspiration, decided to make Timothy one Timothy
Moth. What a name. He’d done well. Only, what now?
What problem would Timothy face? Was he an impoverished, struggling gardener trying to plant an honest living?
Maybe Timothy should be Dorothea Moth. Maybe the
desire for a sex-change operation could be the main plot point;
Reed wondered if that was too trendy. Maybe Dorothea would
have apprehensions about her own desire falling in line with
something “controversial” and doubt her own desire to have a sex
change. Maybe a different serif font was in order. Reed changed
the font from Times New Roman to Adobe Caslon Pro. He
changed it back, then back again. Reed changed the spacing to
double spacing and crossed his arms, eyeing his lone paragraph
with the dissatisfaction of a writer who has coasted on conceit for
too long, not knowing what to do with his inchoate beginning.
Like trying to make a fricassee or a ragout without a baby. There
was something “off ” about his story, the whole artistic endeavor,
the whole creative process and that long-harbored belief that
under the perfect circumstances and say, the reunion of his jacket,
he’d be magically imbued with the ability to write. He wished
he had a dog to walk, or a cigar to smoke, something to stall him
purposefully. He wished he hadn’t openly made fun of meditation years ago. He decided to take a walk.
At first, his feet took him to a bus stop that would have
taken him to his high school. How queer. He hadn’t been
there for years. Later, inexplicably, or explicably, he found
himself in front of Copenhagen’s apartment.
Her hair was in a ponytail; he must’ve interrupted her
scrubbing the toilet.
53

Honourable Mentions

“What’s the what?” she said.
He’d always liked the inanity of the phrase, and her
employing it couldn’t have been an accident.
“I walked here, and I was thinking—I was thinking a
lot, like more than usual, and not all of it was empty or
devoid, and I was thinking that I behaved dishonorably, or
ungallantly. But I think there’s only one way to apologize.”
“Is that so.” Copenhagen raised her eyebrows.
“It isn’t mine the way it used to be. It even smells like
you. This—this—,” he said, removing the varsity jacket off
so vigorously it was as if he thought it would exterminate
his interminable soul, gravid with emptiness as it were.
“I think this should be yours.”
“That must’ve been some walk,” Copenhagen said, catching the jacket before it fell. It appeared heavy in her arms, and
partly to dispense with the awkward weight but mostly to see
if it still felt intrinsically hers, she put it on. When she slid her
left hand in a pocket, there was something rectangular that
hadn’t been there before: a book. Of course.
“Yeah, well, I realized where I should’ve been all
along.”
Copenhagen had never felt more like a destination
than a person as she did then. ◆

54

W49

The Sparrow
by Russell Chesham

“You have to kill it,” the man said.
He was standing next to Noah, peering down at the sparrow that lay in the snow. The sparrow’s wing was broken, and
though its brown-feathered body was facing away, frail and
thin-looking, it kept a wary eye on them from over its shoulder. Noah was quiet and, tugging his toque down with gloved
hands, watched the bird solemnly. He knew that he wanted
to help the sparrow—he had already tried to catch it—but he
had not thought that far ahead. He had not considered what
he would do if he actually caught the sparrow.
“You have to kill it,” the man repeated. “It won’t survive
in the cold.”
The man, who had a round face and a dark moustache
and, despite the cold, wore his jacket unzipped, sniffed
and wiped his nose on his sleeve. It was the middle of
January in Toronto. The morning was grey, the weather
below freezing. It was snowing, and the flakes were falling
quickly to the ground.
Noah had found the sparrow injured on the sidewalk in
front of his house and, instinctively, had tried to pick it up.
But the sparrow had fled, fluttering its one good wing and
making quick erratic leaps along the snow as Noah trailed
behind. It had flung itself onto Bathurst Street, to the edge
of traffic, and Noah had to circle the sparrow and shepherd
it back to the sidewalk. That is when the man had appeared,
55

Honourable Mentions
walking up to Noah, telling him he had to kill it. There was
no malice in the man’s tone. He spoke the words plainly as
a matter of course, as if recalling a life-lesson he had learned
in his boyhood. But if any fleeting vision had come to Noah
during that first attempt to catch the sparrow, it was one of
nurturing it back to health, of keeping it alive. Killing the
sparrow had not even occurred to Noah as an option, but
now, with this strange man, it seemed the only one.
The man adjusted his pants and, minding the sparrow,
bent down on the sidewalk. His jacket slid up, stretching
tight across the shoulders. To Noah it seemed like the jacket
was too small, and as he watched how the man was squatting in the snow, his crack showing, his belly protruding, his
hand reaching out to the sparrow, it gave the impression of
a child that had grown too big for his clothes. Just then the
sparrow leapt away, flitting wildly across the sidewalk, and
over the curb. It landed under a parked car.
“You flush it out,” the man grunted, rising. “I’ll catch
it on this side.”
The wind had picked up in the street, and Noah shivered as it froze along the back of his neck. He had forgotten his scarf, and he thought of getting it now. He looked
over his shoulder to the house where he lived, a brick-lain
character home south of Harbord Street, and looked to the
frosted window of his attic apartment. He had moved there
for school the previous fall, ill-prepared for the cold winter
that had finally set in. As Noah turned back to the car, he
saw his reflection in the window. He had a thin, smooth
face, and wore a green army jacket with many decorative
pockets he never really used. He pulled the collar up to
cover his neck, and stepped off the sidewalk.
Under the car, the snow had turned to an ash-grey
slush. Noah placed his hand on the trunk and crouched
56

W49

behind the rear tire, scanning below for the sparrow,
while the man, standing near the hood, surveyed the
space between the car and the curb.
“There it is.” The man pointed.
Noah crouched lower, trying not to get his jeans wet.
He saw the sparrow huddled in the slush a few feet away
from the tire and, holding onto the bumper, swung his
free arm at it. As he flushed the sparrow from under the
car, he became aware of the traffic slowing to a stop in
the street. A feeling of self-consciousness came over him.
He got up slowly, brushing the wet kneecap of his jeans,
kicking the slush off his boots, and keeping his back to the
road while the man trudged after the sparrow. Then the
light changed, the traffic pulled away, and Noah went to
where the man was standing. The man seemed invested in
his own thoughts, and his eyes wet, perhaps from the cold,
were staring blankly at the injured bird.
The sparrow was breathing rapidly, exhausted from
having escaped the man, and it watched cautiously as the
two tall figures towered over it. It had very little energy left,
and though it could not fly, flight was its only thought. The
sparrow dragged its wing through the snow, scouting the
landscape—the sidewalk, the street, the yard—all barren,
all bleak, all exposed. Finally it saw the hedges that lined
the property, dividing the houses. The tops were covered
with snow, but underneath there was brown earth, and
roots and twigs in which the sparrow could hide, away from
the two tall figures. Its breathing slowed, and it waited.
Noah looked away from the sparrow, away from the man.
It had stopped snowing, but the morning was still grey, and
all he could hear was the wetness of the road and the
passing cars. A woman dressed in a black parka strode by
57

Honourable Mentions

on the sidewalk. Her hood was up, her head was down,
and she did not notice them or the injured bird. After she
went away, the man took a tentative step toward the sparrow. His foot sunk in the snow in the yard, and slipped
below the surface. Then his knee caved in, and he toppled
over. The sparrow darted past Noah, and got stuck in a
softly packed snowbank. Noah hurried forward, but when
he saw the little bird up close, struggling to free itself,
its wing splayed out from its body, he hesitated, and let
up. The sparrow pulled loose from the snow, and flipping
itself through the air, disappeared below the hedges.
Noah went to help the man, but the man waved him
off, pushing himself up as unsteadily as a baby learning to
walk. They both stood silently then, looking at the hedges
and the brown earth that drew a line in the snow. The
man started to say something, and Noah leaned in, but he
could not hear him over the noise in the street. Suddenly
the man walked away, toward College Street, and he did
not say goodbye or even look at Noah when he left. It was
as if he had just remembered something, something from
long ago that he should have done, but never did.
Noah turned back to the hedges. He saw the sparrow
nestled awkwardly against the base of a small evergreen.
He went forward, paused, and went forward again. He was
thinking of what he should do, how the sparrow would not
survive in the cold, when a streetcar came lurching to a halt
in front of the house next. A load of passengers got off,
and Noah could feel them looking his way. He pulled his
gloves tight and, pretending he was only crossing the yard,
disappeared in the crowd on the sidewalk. ◆

58

W49

O2
First Place
by Carly Stone

Fluorescent lights keep beating, breathing
Thin shadows of sickness through the hallways
And I heard her…
The hacking, beating, bargaining
Of lungs to body, of body to lungs
Clawing at the ribs and gripping bones
Climbing through the cage
While the heavy, wet spores crackle from the bottom
They steal the air back down.
I followed the sounds, of a silent scream
And a plea for life, muffled into white halls
And white masks, and these white walls will be her last
And I said, “Can you breathe for me?”
She said, “I don’t know how.”
I slipped an arm under her back
Pulling her body up to mine
While my hands slid down her bones like stair steps
And I held her, this paper person and I’m a human rock
Letting her frail figure melt into my stone
But my arms are sore
They are so sore...
But I can’t let go, because paper needs rock
Or the wind claims paper
And I can not tether you
To this world if I can not reach you.
I pressed plastic lips to her face
And held her head like a newborn
59

Poetry

As the wall came to life, hisssing sighs of relief
Filling her mouth with minutes before they hurl themselves
Down to the chambers, clinging to the spores
And claiming their time
And I said again, “Can you breathe for me?”
She said nothing.
So I stayed, humming to her
Sweet songs of sadness
Her ear pressed to the vibration of my chest
As I keep peering down for small signs of life
While I sang to her “Edelweiss”
Through purple lips and deflated face
She pressed the mask to her mouth
Painting frown lines into the grey waxy waste
That was once full of peaches and pinks
Of moments and memories and all those things
That fill a shell and make it glow, but
Her skin hadn’t felt this cold a moment ago.
She raised a pale hand, a white flag of surrender
Because this battle was at an end
And she was weak from wars unwon
My mind raced, manifested a tomb where souls
Are dumped, too far undone
While a million songs of sadness
Echoed from both ends
And then–
She smiled at me.
Two shallow grey pools pushed heavy lids up
As she watched my mouth freeze
And my chest
Squeeze itself up into every space
And ripple of my throat
Holding still, afraid that my lungs will reach out
60

W49

And rob these inhaled minutes she so craved
Guilty, that I could take these without thought
And hold them without struggle.
She took my hand, and I held hers
A moment etched in memory
Where I would have to be
Six feet under to forget.
Gripping gently
She pressed my palm to her slowing chest
And asked
“Can you breathe for me?”
But I did not know how. ◆

61

Poetry

Environmentalists
Second Prize
by A.J. McGown

my family, we used to walk everywhere
we didn’t have a car.
my mom, self-proclaimed benevolent dictator of our single
parent state,
said it was better for the environment,
which admittedly is true.
the flip side of her propaganda
is that cars do not run easily on part time minimum wages
and this single mother nation had a small scale economy,
subsistence style
but we were not poor we were environmentalists
we were not poor
we were minimalists
we were not poor
we had low carbon footprints
and a low income
but we were not poor
I still half believe it
because there was always another pot of tea,
enough food for our friends to stay over
our basement suite was a safe exhale
infinite hugs and laughter
there is no vehicular equivalent
still, I learned to grimace when asked what my parents do,
learned to articulate this class discomfort in college
learned to put marxist words to the experience
of watching friends receive cars for their birthdays,
62

W49

to go with their pools and private school educations,
to see them not see me, and if they did, to see pity.
I could pretend in their world and still go back to walking
everywhere in mine,
but they would never know. they didn’t have to.
I still turn the lights out leaving rooms even briefly because I
know it all adds up
I turn down the heat and layer sweaters because hydro’s
expensive
because I’m an environmentalist I guess ◆

63

Honourable Mentions

Brief Usage of a Personage
by Jessica Poon

I have been mistaken for other men’s girlfriends before.
Blame patriarchy, or THE PATRIARCHY, but even when
the man in question
is utterly incongruous with my ideal partner in fornication,
I’m flattered.
You were the ideal partner in fornication.
I can say that with a straight face. Try me.
This one guy, a Croatian expat in Ireland
who believed in true love
and made me instant coffee
thought I was yours.
I preferred not to correct him. Wouldn’t’ve known how.
What’s the word for a person whose mouth
has been given a passport stamp
to the south pole?
What’s the average effect of pornography
on an above average person?
Is it extraordinary?
I’ve never taken a statistics class,
but a lover doesn’t always love her.
What’s the word for that, tell me. ◆

64

W49

Sixteen
by Carly Stone

“Come at me”
I said to She
as slanted eyes
of judging gaze
rested on my face.
“Come at me”
I dared, again
as She pursed lips
shifting hips
eyebrows raised
unphased.
I waited.
Finger poised
She began to trace
the outline of my face
and said, “not enough.”
Fuming
I had to call her bluff
“Come at me.”
And so, She bent
forward with
malicious intent
pausing at the end
of my body’s deepest bend
“Not enough,” She said
I wanted her dead.
Undeterred
at venom’d words
I scoffed at She, and

through gritted teeth
implored
“Do you not think
you ask too much?”
Said She, again
“Not enough.”
“Come at me!”
I screamed
in helpless shrill
flailing raging fists until
they connect
to her face
She shatters.
“Come at me…”
I whispered as
She lay in pieces
smashed
to tiny reflections
remnants of
the looking glass.
Holding shard
to shaky palms
whispered I to She,
“When you come at me,
do I not rebuff?”
Answered She
“Not enough.” ◆

65

Honourable Mentions

Buried
by Duncan Parizeau

You left.
I packed all of our
memories in a
cardboard box
and sentenced them
to solitary confinement,
in a closet located
beyond the deepest
reaches of my mind—
sterilized and reinforced
against intrusion;
the light
remains off.
Yet you concoct
ways to permeate
the twilight of my
memory like
a San Antonio breeze.
Whistling the
goose-down soft,
whiskey tinged melodies
of those tender
enough to feel it
when relationships fail,
you let yourself
into the
closet and turn
the light on.
Each time,
this pool of light

acts as a beacon
for hungry moths,
eager to chew
you into oblivion;
the dust from their
furious wings
settling in an
ever growing mound,
burying the box
deeper
and weathering your
fingerprints away. ◆

66

W49

Evening Light
by Laura Birtwhistle

The willow tree
dips over the pond
as the sun goes down
golden ablaze
inciting reflections
mirrored in the water
completely calm—
Pavilion
white tinged with blue
like the rooftop
of a house.
Two mallard ducks
emerge—
standing near the shore
trailing foliage
tint of wheat
almost touching
the water
as the light fades.
Far off
there is singing
babble of voices
and laughter
You imagine a pagoda
by a Japanese pond. ◆

67

Postcard

The Portage
First Prize
Russell Chesham

Bill was in his driveway, trying to fasten a canoe to the roof
of his car. The canoe was old; the paint had faded, showing
the wood underneath. I got off my bike, and went over to
give him the Sunday paper.
“Leave it on the porch,” he said.
I jogged the paper to the house, and looked in the window. The sun cast a beam through the window and I could
see a chew-toy on the floor.
I meant to ask where Bailey was, but Bill had started
cursing, so I went over to help him. He threw the end of
his rope to me, over the canoe, and I grabbed the rope
and fed it through the rear window, passing it back to Bill
as I leaned my head in the car. There was a cooler in the
back, and a long, wooden oar. The seats were covered with
dog-hair. On the passenger seat, there sat what looked like
a vase with a lid on it.
The car rocked as Bill cinched the rope tight. Then he
limped around the car, and got in the front seat. He tried the
starter three times before it would turn. Then he sat there
a moment, gripping the wheel. I could smell the exhaust.
Then Bill thanked me, kindly.
I picked up my bike, and waved as he drove off, the
canoe held fast to his car. ◆

68

W49

Kafka’s
Second Prize
Duncan Parizeau

A grinding whir, incessant thumping, a hoarse rasp;
the essence of the Old World escapes, struggling to acclimate to her new surroundings.
First, she must navigate Bauhausian concepts of
spatial awareness: tables spaced to create deliberate agoraphobia. Periwinkle acquiesces to lavender, adding Kandinskian warmth to the walls, but she will soon require
rest. Finding a seat may prove difficult; she is too polite to
interrupt the furniture’s discourse over which aesthetic to
adopt: the tables’ Modern, or the chairs’ Post-Industrial.
She could mingle with the collected rabble, though
this is equally confusing: a cornucopia of personalities
and fashion mimic the interior design. At one table, lumberjack-plaid hangs over a vegan-crusader’s gaunt frame,
a clear-cutting incongruity to his ideologies. He attempts
to win the affection of Victorian lace, who is more attuned to her phone, than the crusader’s sermon about the
merits of Fair Trade. She guffaws at the realization that
mauve best describes her inner-personality— she always
figured vermillion.
Elsewhere, the mustachioed-mouth of Soviet khaki is
embroiled in a bitter dispute with Hemingway’s cardigan.
He asserts that free refills are a proletarian right, while
thumping his shoe on the table. Hemingway’s cardigan,
strokes his disheveled beard, concurs, and redirects their
69

Postcard

conversation towards their latest collaborative manuscript: Stoked.
An underappreciated wallflower amidst the feverish
dialogues, the essence lingers before taking her final rest.
She settles slowly into the security of white porcelain and
meets my lips, creating a haze that transports me from
Vancouver, to the Old World comforts of Milan. ◆

70

W49

New Mother
Third Prize
Kyle Arnould

I was forbidden near the river and this I told to New
Mother. Old Mother taught me that the river is mighty
and to be revered. We will go through said New Mother,
so we did. The sound it made was furious and I became
frightened. New Mother told me to hush and to hold on as
she clutched the rope hanging from a tree on both banks.
My breathing ceased when silver rapids touched my skin.
New Mother enveloped me in a blanket on the other
side. The material was coarse and hurt my face. I looked
around and saw no one. Where is Old Mother? I asked,
afraid. New Mother smiled. Old Mother waits in my
village. A man is coming to guide us. He will come in an
automobile; it is like a metal horse.
Her face did not move as she talked and the grey
outline of her smile no longer looked like it belonged.
Wind rode under leaves and water flowed over rock and I
stood still. I heard before I saw a great beast of the night
and so I ran into the quickening dark, weaving my way
through the trees and gliding over the water.
When the sun rose it had no warmth and I knew that
my people had given me to the river, and now my spirit
steps as the currants flow, alone and forever moving. ◆

71

Announcing the 18th Annual
Langara Writing Contest
We want your:

Poetry: lyrics, sonnets, raps, haiku, ballads, odes, limericks, songs...
Creative Nonfiction: literary journalism, memoir, commentary, essays
with a literary edge, travelogues...
Fiction: short stories, sci-fi, fables, historical fiction, flash fiction,
graphic fiction...

Write Now
For the 15th Annual Langara Writing Contest
Deadline: April 20th, 2017
The contest is open to all Langara students, past and present. Two prizes will be
awarded in each of these three genres: poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction.
1st Prize: $100 2nd Prize: $50
Winning entrants will be notified by September 30th, 2010. In addition to the
prizewinners, many deserving entries in all three categories will be published in
the 15th issue of W49 Magazine, which will be released in early Winter 2010.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:
1. An entry may include up to 5 poems, or a short story or a creative non-fiction
work not longer than 2,000 words
2. Entries must be type-written and double spaced (do not staple and do not put
your name on the pages of your manuscript!)
3. Entries must be accompanied by a cover sheet identifying your name, Langara
student number, phone numbers, mailing address, email, and the genre of work
you submitted
4. Each entry must be accompanied by a $5.00 entry fee. Make your cheque
payable to “Langara College”
5. Deadline for submission is 2 April 2010.
W49 Magazine will notify all entrants after their manuscripts have been
adjudicated.Those wishing their material returned after the contest must include
a self-addressed, self-stamped envelope with the entry. All entrants will receive
copies of the magazine at no cost.

Please direct all submissions and enquiries to:
Guy Wilkinson
Department of English, Langara College,
100 W 49th Ave.,Vancouver, BC V5Y 2Z6
604.323.5339
gwilkinson@langara.bc.ca