W49 MAGAZINE 2022 - -- -- - W49 MAGAZINE 2022 POSTCARD .._ W49 2022 EDITORIAL After a two-year hiatus, we are pleased to announce the commencement of both print and on line versions of the 22nd edition of W 49 magazine, a journal of award-winning creative writing by Langara students. As editor of the magazine, I would like tO thank the m any people who were involved in helping make this year's issue possible, beginning with the Langara English department members who volunteered tO act as adjudicatOrs: Deborah Blacklock, Kina Cavicchioli, Sandra Friesen, Caroline Harvey, Trevor Newland, Thor Polukoshko, Daniel Poirier, Sarah Richards, Erin Robb, and Roger Semmens. Invaluable assistance in seeing the project through to completion was further provided by Greg Holditch, Kathleen Oliver, Lynette Hawksley, and Josue Menjivar. A huge thank you to Paola Rubio Portella for her graceful design, layout, and cover art work. Most importantly, I would like to thank all W 49 contributors, the Langara students whose talent and creativity is on full display in this year's edition. And we are also pleased to include, as per tradition, more Langara student writing excellence in the form of winning entries from Caroline Harvey's Postcard Contest competition. Happy reading! Guy Wilkinson '' I sink into my worn recliner, slowly twirling the polaroid photo between my fingertips ... THE WAY IT WAS• BRAEDON LOWEY • FIRST PLACE FICTION X X X X X X X X X X X FICTION X X X X X X X X X X FIRST PLACE FICTION THE WAY IT WAS Braedon Lowey sink into my worn recliner, slowly twirling the polaroid photo between my fingertips, listening as it squeaks under the latex glove. I wear it not to protect the photo, but to keep it separated from my bare flesh-once I touch it, it's gone forever. I mminate over whether or not chis is the right time as I scare at it. In the photo, Ash looks at me, his sandy blond curls dangling over his smile, which lacks the two front teethhe was six years old in this one, and that was the day I discovered the camera's strange magic. My husband, John, and I had each taken a photo that day at the beach. When I was packing everything up later, I touched the one he took, and it brought me back to that moment. Physically. I had travelled through time, though it took me a while to figure it out-I spent most of my rime there trying to explain to John what had happened. Ten minutes later, I found myself back at the moment I touched it, like nothing ever changed, except that the photo was gone. John had no I 4 idea anything had occurred, so I said nothing, but carefolly tucked the other photo into my book to save for later. I never knew if the camera's magic was limited, or if maybe it was in the film instead, so I used it sparingly and avoided capturing mundane moments like the beach. Instead I took photos of his life's biggest moments and held onto them. The sunlight shining through the window warms my hand and bounces off the polaroid, scattering itself around the room. Holding the memory in my hands, I'm gratefi.tl now chat it's a mundane one. It'll be easier to go back to. I had pictures of his engagement with Michelle, his move into his first apartment, his high school graduation, his first car right before he drove it home, right before I dropped him off for his first date, and the two beach photos. I had been saving the pictures, planning to leave chem in an envelope with a note for him to find when I'm gone, so he can relive his best moments. WRITING CONTEST WINNERS X That was my plan until Ash and Michelle were killed by a drunk driver. Now the photos are just for me, and I've been working my way backwards through chem. After their tuneral, I watched him propose to her again and he asked me why I was cry ing so much and I simply couldn't say the words. There are still three empty sheets of film left, and I've lain awake all night before, wondering what they could have held. I'm at the age now where I would be filing chem away somewhere. My memory is starting to go. Noc fade, or gee fuz zy, but just ... slip away. I lose pieces ofic every day and nothing fills in the gaps- they're just there. Soon I'll be like my mother, whose memory eroded all the way back to her childhood before she passed. My heart broke watching her play with dolls and children's coys so passionately, but she was so, so happy. She passed on with a smile, even though everyone around her bed was a stranger to her. She was lucky. I hope chat I, too, forget everything chat hurt in my life. I tear the glove off and seize the photo. It shatters into fragments of golden light and encircles me in a cobweb of radiant tessella tions. I close my eyes and embrace the memory, beginning to feel the warmth of the California sun. When I opened chem again, I was there. The seagulls screeched overhead, preying on littered french fries from the town's first McDonald's. Ash loved the happy meals there. The beach bag, with che camera in it, lay in the sand beside me. My hair, long and soft and blonde again, hung over John's hand resting on my back He had returned from his deployment not long ago, and before chis photo was taken, we had a long talk about how graceful he was to be there. It would be many years from chis moment chat he'd disappear, celling me he needs space to grieve. Between chose moments, I had considered, as many mothers do, what losing a child might be like , and had always thought it would bring us closer together. Yet still, I smiled warmly at him, and he smiled back before giving me a peck on che cheek. Eighteen years from now I would hate him, but in chat moment, I shared his sentiment-I was just grateful to be there. But I wasn't there for him. I looked out at the water where Ash was playing, and the great blue horizon looked washed ouc and was WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 5 FIRST PLACE FICTION covered in a tint of sepia, reminding me that I was not only a tourist to the California shores, but to chis time as well. The clock was ticking. "Mom!" Ash shouted in a shrill, boy ish tone. "Come help me dig!" I swore I'd never forget his voice, but it sounded strange and unfamiliar. In the last memory I'd visited, it had already deepened to chat of a man's. I sat next to him as he dug a hole. A moat for his sandcastle, he said, even though there was no sandcastle in the middle. It was huge. Large enough for him to fie inside. I found myself admiring his work, even though, really, it wasn't that impressive. It was just a pit where sand used to be and now was not. Muddy water began to trickle in, and I looked up to see chat he had dug a channel to the sea, and the ride sent a rhythmic surge of water through it like a heart pumping blood. I watched him as one might watch a monkey at a zoo, wondering what it'll do next, as he fetched his bucket and filled it with hard packed sand. He tipped it upside down into his moat, and a perfect cylinder of sand splashed into the water. His jaw dropped, and I chuckled. "You can't build your castle in a full moat, sweetheart," I said. "Why not?" "The sand holds its shape when it's damp, but not when it's wet. The hole you dug is filled with water now, and any sand you put in it will fall apart. 6 I'm afraid that this pit can't be the foundation of a castle now." He looked down at it, and his lip trembled a bit. "Can you fix it?" he asked. Normally I'd try to do it w ith him and teach him the problemsolving skills that would serve him well later on. But it didn't matter there. I just wanted him to be happy. "I'll try my best," I reassured him . I started to scoop water out while he dug another hole a few feet away, and I slowed as I started to feel dizzy. I only had a few minutes left here. "Smile!" John shouted from up the beach. He was holding the camera, and, instinctively, I panicked and ran cowards him. It was too late. He had already taken the photo. I shouted at him not to touch it, and got to him just in time to use the corner of my beach towel to take the photo from the camera. "Christ, Emma, what's the matter?" John asked. I didn't like when he took chat cone with me, but didn't react, as I was occupied with staring at the photo developing in my hands. It was the same one chat he originally cook on chis day, except I wasn't in the frame chis time, since I was sprinting co him instead. Looking at it gave me an idea chat I was angry hadn't risen up in the eighty years following chis moment. "l'msorry,John, I just don't remember how much film is left:." WRITING CONTEST WINNERS X "There's eight sheets," he said, confirming my theory. Even though the photos are destroyed when I use chem, the empty film is still here. I only had one more thing to confirm-I reached out and touched the photo. '' "Christ, Emma, what's the matter?" John asked. A smile chat I had only seen on ocher faces since Ash died finally appeared on mine again. I can nest the memories inside each ocher. There were eight sheets of film left and if I cook a photo with each one, then I could jump into chem and cake even more, until... The time I had here was technically finite, but functionally infinite. The math was too long to do, but by my estimate, it was an astronomical number of minutes. I could be there forever. Back in the real world, my memories were fading, and soon I'd unravel myself into living in a time where Ash was still alive. I would be like my mother in the care home. I would look at a nurse chat looked vaguely like my son and ask chem how Michelle is doing. The nurse, trained to handle women like me, would say chat Michelle is doing just fine. I couldn't stand the thought of it. Nobody would be the real Ash, sitting in front of me like he is now, and I couldn't bring myself to be at peace with disguising someone in a memory. I kept caking photos , jumping down the different branches of time chat laid themselves out as I went. Every time I jumped into a memory, I found myself next to John again, staring at me like I had gone mad. I went back to the sea where Ash was digging and apologized for stepping away. Knowing chat I had longer now, I started to scoop the water out of the hole he had dug while I talked with him . The tide came dangerously close as I got down to the last bits of water, and after only a few more pushes, got high enough to fill the hole again. I began to scoop it back out, and felt myself get dizzy as my vision began to waver. Ten minutes already. WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 7 FIRST PLACE FICTION tried going faster, knowing it wasn't helpful. May be I thought chat if I could return the water co the sea fast enough that it would be grateful and leave me be. It didn't . • At one point Ash asked me why I was going so fast. I knew chat he would never remember chis conversation, so I cold him that he would die one day, and chat I was back here to visit him. He seemed comforted by chat. "Am I in heaven?" he asked. I told him yes, but I didn't know ifl believed in heaven. I wanted to, but how could the same God that cook my baby boy take care ofhim too? "That's good," he said. "I hoped I'd go to heaven." ••• I tried building barricades from sand and towels and rocks. Eicher the tide would break through, or I'd spend so much time building it that I couldn't empty the hole. I wanted to make Ash happy, but I needed more than the ten minutes I had. No matter what I tried, no matter how hard I worked at it, I couldn't fi x it, not even with help from Ash or John. I had lost track of how many attempts I made before I accepted that what I needed was more time, not more chances. I collapsed next to Ash, exhausted, and wept. "It's okay, mom," he said, blissfully unaware of how many times I'd done chis already. "I'll build a castle somewhere else." I wept harder, knowing that I'd never see it. I had tried every thing I could think of for what felt like ages, and yet, the pit remained. The pit where once there was sand and now there was not, and I yearned with my entire self for it to be back to the way it was before. T 8 WRITING CONTE ST WINNER S SECOND PLACE FICTION TENTH ANNIVERSARY Claire Turner eptember of 1949 was warm in Watrous; the pale house stood still at the edge of town. The front hall was dark, lie only by sunbeams pouring through the chin floral drapes. A shelf by the door held three photographs. The first was yellowed and depicted a young family of three - mother, father, and son, with matching light hair, standing outside the house. The second depicted the son with another boy, both knees deep in a lake, holding jackfish. A plaque on the frame read, "Tommy and George, age eleven first fish." The final frame held a more recent photograph of Tommy, now in his twenties, in uniform. He sported a natural grin, his arm wrapped around a dark-haired woman, who wore a lightcoloured striped suit dress and a small veil, outside of a church. Keys ratcled at the door before it slammed open. Tommy stood at the threshold, crow's feet wrinkling. His hair was disheveled, and dark brown suit rumpled. He hobbled over che threshold, a cane in his left hand and keys in his right. The cane caught on the carpet. He tripped and swore. He S WRITING CONTEST WINNERS quickly righted himself and plastered a smile. "I'm home! Mr. Williamson gave me the afternoon off when he heard it was our 10th. I thought we could go have a picnic by the lake, just like we used too! Maybe pop by the liquor store for some champagne." Tommy elbowed the door closed and sat on stair. The house creaked slowly in the still air. He tossed the keys beside him. "Gone again?" His smile fell as he shrugged off his patched jacket and threw it over the railing. The shoes were next, placed neacly on the floor. He grabbed his cane again and limped up the stairs. Entering their bedroom, he sat o~ the right side of their quilted bed. The bedside table carried a small halfused candle and a glass of still water. He opened the drawer and pulled out a black leather-bound book He flipped through to the latest passage. Today is the day. I barely slept. I almost ran out of the house when Tommy lefi:. No more secrets after tonight. I hope it's not too much of a shock. I just don't want him to hate me. We deserve better in our lives. 9 SECOND PLACE FICTION Tommy ran his fingers over the scrawled words. The tips stopped at the word hate. "Never," he mumbled. His eyes welled as he cook a deep breath. The night they met the air was still. His cousin George came to visit and decided to go dancing at their local dance hall to get Tommy's mind off the death of his parents. There were many people, bu~ two girls caught his eye. Tliey looked identical with their matching curled hair and similar dresses, the older ixn pale yellow and the younger in pale pink. The older was swaying with the music while the younger leaned on the wall. Her blue eyes seemed to sparkle with fas cination, but her body remained still. Tommy turned to George and asked, "What about the one in yellow? She looks like she can dance well." George followed his gaze and nodded. "The pink one doesn't seem like much of a good time. " Tommy grinned and laughed, "Yeah, but she'll probably talk your ears off" George groaned, "The things I do for you." Tommy clapped his back and they walked over. The older one's eyes met George's but quickly moved to Tommy. He had a way of moving that seemed to always draw eyes to him. He floated over to her and held out his hand. 10 "Care to dance?" Tommy asked. The older one placed her hand in his. "Of course." They twirled off onto the dance floor leaving the other two to talk. Tommy slipped his left hand to her narrow waist and pulled her left into his right. She slid her right hand onto his shoulder. They started to sway with the music. The beat picked up and Tommy gave her a twirl. She laughed heartily, "Got a name?" "Tommy ." "Jane." "So, Jane. Do you come here often?" Tommy smiled as he swung her around the space. "No, but my sister heard about it from a friend, and I thought we should go," Jane said, looking back at George and her sister now sitting and talking. "She's not much of a dancer but loves ' the music!" "I'm a good teacher," Tommy swung Jane to his side and guided her back towards the two sitting ducks. He leaned into her ear and asked, "What's her name?" "Joyce," Jane whispered. She took a seat on the other side of George, cutting off their conversation about the weather. A smile easily rested on her lips, and George matched. Tommy leaned over Joyce's lap with his hand outstretched, "Would you please let me take you for a whirl?" Joyce blushed and leaned a little closer to Tommy. Her lips brushed his WRITING CONTEST WINN ERS X ear, and a shiver went down his spine, "I don't know how to." Tommy gulped. The band switched to a slow song. "How about we just sway?" She nodded and one dance turned into the rest of the night. It had been quite a while since they h ad done anything like their first night together, but he was providing for their future. Tommy was lyin g to himself Since he had returned, they spent most even ings listening to a radio show in silence, then retiring to bed. He stood quickly and the shrapnel stuck in his leg hummed against his bone. A yelp escaped his lips and he fell to the bed. This time tears freely flowed. He threw his cane back at the opened door and it fell onto the landing. He quietly sobbed, head in h ands. A few minutes passed and he sat up, wiping his eyes quickly. "Alright, Tommy. Let's go for a drive. Maybe she's just visiting Jane," he stated boldly. No t exactly a sound theory, but it brought him to his feet and gave him a destination. He leaned on the bed as he walked, his face wincing, but his focus didn't leave the cane until h e had it back in his hand. He swiftly walked down the stairs, redressed for the outdoors grabbed his keys, and exited. His car was a little rusty, but still ran, even if just a little slowly. However, the drive to Jane's was even slower than normal. Tommy had to stop periodically for families of animals to walk by. He almost started to cry again. Maybe Joyce would be more interested in him if they h ad children, but it h ad been painful to even try. The shrapnel in h is leg was buzzing at the mere thought. Heat waves crept off the late summer grass as he finally turned into Jane and George's driveway. The house seemed to loom over Tommy as he came to a stop. George was standing at the top of the peeling white stairs in a pressed black suit. His face broke into a massive grin. As Tommy pulled himself out of the driver's seat, George's face fell as he thundered down the stairs. "What happened?" George asked. "Is Joyce here?" "No, was she supposed to be?" WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 11 SECOND PLACE FICTION Tommy bowed his head, "Joyce is going to leave me." George's brow wrinkled. "No, she's not. Why would you think that?" "She's never home recently." Now Tommy had someone to talk to, the flood gates opened. "Her diary said that she ran out of the house after I left today. I know I haven't been the most attentive, and we haven't done much, but we chose each other! Just the war and my leg." Tommy paused. George gave a sympathetic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure that's something between you and Joyce," he said adding, "Don't tell Jane, you'll worry her." Tommy nodded. Jane walked out the dark blue front door in a yellow jacket with a matching party dress, looking like the girl he had met ten years ago. "Tommy! What are you doing here?" she called, coming down the stairs. George swung his arm around Tommy's cowering shoulders, "I called him at work say ing we should take him and Joyce out for dinner! " "Oh, how nice!" "Yes dear, so he came to pick us up on his way home. We'll just swing by their house to change, and we'll meet Joyce in town." George lied so smoothly, his face level when Tommy looked up. 12 "Great!" Jane walked to che back of che car. George ran around and opened the door for her. After he settled her in, he ran back around to the other side and took the keys out of Tommy's hands. "I'll drive," George said. Tommy slowly walked to the ocher side and lowered himself into the seat. He was a little shocked. Why did he talk to George? He wouldn't understand. Ja~e didn't want to leave him. George started the car. To Tommy, this ride felt quicker. He had gathered his thoughts and he understood what he needed to do. "Tommy, why don't you go in and change, we'll just wait here," George said, leaning over to open che passenger side door. Tommy pulled himself out of the car and up the stairs. A man in a trance, he walked through che front door and up to che bedroom. He opened the armoire and looked all che way to the back, finding the suit bag and unzipping it. There it was, in perfect condition, like it had been pressed this morning. He removed his work suit and slid into his tails. They fit just the sam e as before. He limped to Joyce's floorlength mirror and took in his worn face. Seeing himself in his old suit, he could breathe easier, stand a liccle straighter. The person staring back WRITING CONTEST WINNERS X looked familiar again. He almost leaped across che room. May be she ' would stay if I could move, he thought. He grabbed his cane and walked back out of the house . When he slid into the car, George and Jane commented on how fine he looked. He moved his mouth into a slow grin, and they chatted about George and Jane's farm. They recently had a new foal born and were extremely excited. "Oh Honey, we're here!" Tommy looked up at Jane's squeal and saw the dance hall where he had first met Joyce. He whipped around to look at George, words failing to leave his lips. George nodded back, looking past Tommy to the door of the hall. The from doors opened and out walked a small woman wearing a familiar cream suit with pale blue stripes and a small veil. Dark curls framed her face. Tommy's eyes started to well. There was his girl , his Joyce. He climbed out of the car and walked over to her, his steps commanding. Her eyes started to water as Tommy drew closer. He looked a little closer and realized she was wearing her wedding suit. "Oh, you look so handsome!" Joyce called, running into his arms. George and Jane kept walking and entered the hall with a wink back to a shocked Tommy. Tommy looked down at Joyce, "What's going on?" Joyce took a step back. "I thought we could finally have our reception. I wanted to surprise you since you've been working. I've even been practicing dancing with Jane and George!" Tommy smiled. He grabbed Joyce by the waist and lifted her into a deep kiss . Years of forgetting, sitting at either ends of the couch, not buying her flowers, stripped away. He pulled away and saw the woman she had grown inco. "You're too good for me." "Oh darling." Joyce looped her arm in his and they walked to the doors of the hall. Tommy's mind wondered to the journal entry Joyce wrote. We deserve better. He gave his wife one last kiss on her temple before opening the door for her. T WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 13 FICTION HONORABLE MENTION A REQ1!IEM Xochitl Leal must have been exhausted from the journey; how long I'd slept I didn't know. I awoke confused, with very little recollection from the previous days. The last thing I remembered was the dusty ride down from the mountains; all of us boys bumping along sleepily in the back of the old pick-up truck, then taking the usual slow, jarring bus ride that wound through the valley. I remembered walking along the highway's edge from the bus stop to our town and thinking about Loretta. Ay, Loretta. I was so exhausted from working long days. Day after day up in the mountains. My shoulders ached, my hands embedded with dirt, I was tired of spending my weekends working so far from Loretta. But, I remembered our promise and I did this for her, for us, for our future. That's why I bought her pomegranates- for our fertile future, for the unborn children waiting for us. I had fresh chilies wrapped in tissue for mother, and for you, Salvador, I had in my pocket a speckled rock from the quarry. It looked like it contained all the night's stars. I 14 I watched as the red evening sun fell behind the mountains on my left. There was more smoke in the air than usual; I remember wondering if someone must have started preparing the so_il early this year. I was so weary, my lungs were full of smoke and bitter diesel fumes by now, but the vision of Loretta's sweet face kept me going. I still can't remember arriving home. I h ad strange dreams of rushing water, oflarge watery fish eyes staring into mine; I dreamt I was falling into a river. I reached out to grab something, to stop my fall, and awoke suddenly, soaking in sweat. A high fever they said; four days I'd slept, they said. My leaden eyelids parted slowly to three huddled faces looking down at me. "Rest more, my son, you will need the rest," mother said, pulling my we t shirt over my head. I was annoyed when I awoke and discovered rocks in my bed; Salvador! My brother and his stupid pranks. They weren't funny. I reached to my nightstand for the chain I always wore around my neck and it wasn't there. I swear, I will get that little boy! WRITING CONTEST WINNERS X "Don't get angered my son, you must rest," and mother lifted my head to drink a hot, musky tea. The three women shuffled out, closing the door behind them. I could hear their low muffled voices outside my door. I recognised the voice of our mother, her sister, and the third voice I didn't know; they were saying that I had been calling your name, Salvador. Our aunt's resonating voice was distinct, "he needs to be sleeping, he needs to forget". "Don't worry," replied the voice of the third, "give it a couple of hours." "We are so very hungry." I could hear my mother talking now but the voices faded into the murky darkness, my eyes were so heavy. I heard a click; did they lock my door? Then water. More water. Rushing water, it was filling my ears, it was so loud, and I was falling. Slipping. I could feel my hand slipping, I could hear your voice Salvador, you were calling my name. I was losing my grip, letting go, grasping for a handhold, grasping at the submerged roots, gasping for air. I couldn't breathe. I was falling through the earth, being swallowed, fingernails scratching at the dirt, and on skin, not my skin. I stopped. I was floating not falling, my hair was caught on something, being pulled, ripped. I woke with a start, immediately reaching up to touch the back of my head when someone grabbed my wrist and firmly laid my hand down across my chest; my eyes opened to the back of my mother's head, pulling the sheet up to my chin. "You were yelling again," she said, "you are still very ill, you must rest." "What happened to your hand?" Horrified, I reached out to touch what looked like a charcoaled com husk where her skin should have been; her nails were black and deformed like the hard sunflower shells that the birds dropped in our yard. She briskly retracted her hand, turning to leave. "Nothing, don't worry, just a small burn." "Where's Salvador?" "Just rest my dear, shut your eyes now." With the closing of the door, I reached back and felt a small bald spot on the back of my head. Did she rip out my hair? When her steps receded, I got out of bed, carefully, as to not creak the old WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 15 FICTION HONORABLE MENTION wooden frame. I walked across the cold stone floor and cautiously turned the handle, expecting it to be locked. I was surprised to see the house in darkness, with the exception of a low light emanating from within Salvador's room. His door was ajar and inside the three women were sitting in a semicircle, their backs towards me; they were facing what looked like a small pile of hair in the centre of the room. There was no sign of Salvador, no sign of him at all; not his small bed, not even one of his toys on the floor. My mother was holding her loom, my aunt had one hand full of hair and the other passing the shuttle through the threads, leaning in toward my mother and then back; in the rhythmic sway of a sapling in che wind. The third woman was holding up scissors - the glim of metal caught the candlelight. I crept low to the ground, my heart beating loudly. I needed to find Salvador. Outside, the streets were crowded; a murmuring cavalcade of mourners made its way down the street toward the edge of town, toward the river. As the procession made its way past me, a sea of black garments fluttered in the breeze. Up ahead, four pallbearers carried a small coffin. "Excuse me, what is happening here? Whose funeral is this?' I stumbled through the crowd, blank faces 16 looking through me, ahead of me, each carrying wilted flowers. "Please, stop. Please. Who died? Excuse me." My questions met with deaf ears; I was unseen, unheard. Two riders on huge, black, snarling horses were bringing up che rear, tails swatting flies from side co side. They reared on their hind legs in unison as they neared, and the rider on the left slowed his pace beside me. His horse's nostrils flaring, feet scamping, and he leant down to draw his face up to mine. His eyes were two black pools of obsidian; his mouth opened as if to say something but instead exhaled a deep sulfuric breach, knocking me backwards. My thoughts turned to Loretta; I needed to find her. I needed her to help me find Salvador; she would know what to do. I turned and ran. I ran down the narrow, twisting, stone streets. I ran past all of the colorful cinder block houses with their curtains drawn shut, past the century-old church where we planned to marry. I ran as fast as I could, the cloud of people long behind me now. I could see Loretta's house there at the end of the sloping road. There was smoke everywhere; the air was yellow with it, my nostrils filled with the acrid smell. I was frantic. I pounded on her door, and there she was exactly as I remembered her; her almond eyes smiling at me, shiny dark hair WRITING CONTEST WINNERS X reflecting the light. She ushered me in and sat me down at the small wooden table near the stove; my clothes were soaked, I was shivering. I didn't remember it raining; I must have stepped in some water. Or maybe it was a cold sweat, as she said; I was so damp, I was so cold. As I shivered there I watched her slender back, her delicate hands making us tea. I longed to couch her, to hold her. But, Loretta urged me to sit quietly, not to upset mysel f I noticed all of the marigolds in the vase were drooping; their petals fell on the table. I looked up to comment, surprised that Loretta would let these flowers dry out- it was a bad omen, she knew this. Then I saw it, my chain around her neck. I wanted to believe it was Loretta that stood before me, I really did. But there was something in the way she moved; did her feet drag just a little? There was something in the way she cold me "you must rest." Something was wrong, I knew it wasn't Loretta, and I stumbled out of there as fast as I could. She tried to come after me, reached out to grab me, and when I was just out of the front door I saw her face change, her lips moved, and I heard my mother's voice say: "Stop son. You are sick, this is a dream." But it wasn't my mother's face; it was the rider and his eyes were black mirrors reflecting flames. I ran to find you Salvador. I ran back through the narrow streets and when I thought I was a safe distance away I looked back. All of the town was gone; everything around me was ashes and smoke, piles of rubbled concrete. I was so confused, I was so worn out, I stumbled; my legs gave way &om under me. As I lay on the ground a small voice whispered in my ear and a little cold hand grasped mine. "Are flowers carried to the kingdom of the dead?" she recited. "Is it true that we go? Where do we go, when we go? Are we dead there or do we still exist? Do we exist there again?" I recognised the ancient poem. "You need to remember," she said. "He needs you to remember you." I looked up into the face of a little girl. She pointed down to the river and beckoned that I follow. When we stood on the bank of the river, I peered down and I saw myself there at the bottom cradling you, Salvador, in my arms. We looked like we were suspended in time; hair floating up like a halo, anchored in an eternal moment. I must have held on hard until the breath ran out, I must have cradled you so tight that when my life left we remained in this embrace like some ancient sacrifice to the WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 17 FICTION HONORABLE MENTION old gods; the gods chat may have been forgotten but don't forget. They only got hungrier, and they feasted on my grief They'd been starving and I gave chem their fill. I wasn't really here but somehow stuck here. Then I remembered it all; I had sat here for days on chis riverbank, with your little body in my arms. For days, I watched your perfect face. So still , so peaceful, like smooth carved ston e, eyes closed, lips slighrly parted. I prayed to the spirits of the river; I called out to whatever spirits would hear me, "Take pity on me. Where he goes I go!" I fasted at that riverbank as ash rained down from the heavens, and I wouldn't lee you go, I couldn't let you go. I called to your tiny spirit not to leave me alone. All around me were ashes and charcoal now, nothing was left of my life: not my home, not Loretta, nor our future - there you were at the river as if you'd been waiting for me all along. What if I hadn't taken so long, why hadn't I been there too? I should have been there to carry you to the river, where the air was cleaner; I could have run us here faster. I opened your litrle clenched fist, unfolding those stiff cold fingers closed around a stone. I stared at char stone like it was some kind of relic and I placed it on my tongue. I swallowed chat stone, pushing it down my parched throat with mouthfuls of cold river water. I could feel it slowly sliding down into my stomach, and like a vision, I saw: I wanted to be a stone in the belly of the river, swallowed up and leaden, heavy, dropping into the Dream. I knew then what I must do - I knew what I'd already done; my pockets were heavy, full of river stones. Those nights at the river when you held me close to you, your warmth, I'd been so cold there waiting for you. You uncurled my fingers; so long had they been tightly closed. How I love you, how I waited for you, big brother. I waited when they all began to leave and walk the road home, I waited for you; when the last ones left, and the fires went cold, I was still here. I knew you'd need me to comfort you, I knew chat even after death you'd be lost. So, I waited to carry you home. T 18 WRITING CONTEST WINNERS FICTION HONORABLE MENTION A.I.D. M.K. Ni lson A rtifici al Intelligence Department's Independent Contractor Terms and Conditions: r42.3-57 .. .Independent Contractor.. . solely responsible.. .memory donation .. . r42.3-58 ... donated memory... property... Company... trademark. .. perpetuity.... no access ... by... Independent... r68.r.49 ... donated memory... 2-hours before ... Contract designated start time defined ... 2r7.6.2r ... before first contract ... Independenc. ..go ... Company.. . procedure ... collected memory... said [collected] memory... selected by Company... stored by Company... 2r7.6.24 Failure ...suitable donated memory... immediate forfeiture ... collected memory...use ... All tenns and conditions .. .'donated' [memory] apply... Tate Clifclands likes puzzles, which is why she stacks all the delivery boxes she receives, on behalf of her neighbors, in a Jenga tower. Even the WRITING CONTEST WINNERS boxes marked with the bright, red fragile sticker. Right now, the cower is just past the doorknob of her bachelor apartment's door. She also likes neon pose-its: yellow is for watering her away neighbors' plants; pink is a reminder to fulfill the obligacory, volunteer H.0.A. hours; orange is for one-off reminders; b lue is to organize her Independent Contractor hours, or as she and ochers call themselves, ghost workers. Glancing around her apartment, Tate realizes the only color is the post-its. The walls are the original white when she moved in four years ago. Even though she waters everyone else's plants, she has none of her own. Outside of her bed, the biggest piece of fi.trniture is her desk, where she spends many hours hunched over tagging visual images, as one of her contributions to A.I. development. The ocher contribution is not due for another three-weeks, at the start of the new contract. Today is a day to participate in her favorite activity: people watching. The public park down the street has a bench, which, unlike the other benches, is crooked. Maybe one of the workers had had enough for the day 19 FICTION HONORABLE MENTION and decided the bench could sit as it was. This 'as it was' bench provides an uncanny angle to the park One in which Tate can see park users, while sitting hidden in the shadows of a tree. She likes chat tree. While reaching into the hall closet, Tate glimpses another tree. This one resides in a crayon drawing taped to the closet's back wal l. She grabs a jacket. This thrift-score find is a liccle coo big and hies her mid-thigh. After sliding on her equally discounted loafers, Tate walks over co a small bowl. She pockets her keys. Then she picks-up and fastens a tacky, oversized, butterfly pin to her jacket's lapel. It is the kind of pin chat dollar scores sell on the second-shelf up from the floor. On her way co the elevator, Tate declines a phone call, while she steps around Mrs. Walker and her dinner invitation. Mrs. Walker tries co speak of her recent trip co Florida. Tate knows 'Florida' is code for her neighbour's periodic nips and tucks. Tate keeps walking. She presses the elevator button and pretends to listen co her neighbour talk about sandy beaches and tequila time with her sister, who lives in one of chose retirement communities. As it descends, Tate looks at her reflection in the elevator's door. She needs co be careful or she will be the widow with a dowager's hump. Briefly, Tate attempts co straighten her posture. She fidgets with the butterfly pin. Part of the butterfly's orange body is shiny from all the times Tate rubs, polishes, it with her fingers . She wanders down the block co the park's side entrance, which is through a small, wrought iron gate. She likes the slight squeak of the gate's opening. Once Tate cakes her customary seat, she merges into the surroundings. She declines a call. A small, unicorn-shaped cloud prances across the sky. It begins co play hide-and-seek with the ocher clouds. When it emerges from its last hiding place, the unicorn has lose both its wings and horn, now it looks like a small, gray box. Tate cakes a deep breach preparing co exhale slowly. The jarring ringtone ofJared Lew's Joker laugh causes her co choke and cough. Grabbing at the butterfly pin, Tate accepts the call. "Hello Tate, we have a project for you!" says Pam. "I have three-weeks." "We have a project." "Is there another project in a few days?" 20 WRITING CONTEST WINNERS X "No worries. Per our agreement, an unscheduled break means voiding your contract." "I can make it work," says Tate. "The criteria for the mem are a little different." "Excuse me?" "Don't worry, it's all in the info pack and you still have your col-mem." "My col-mem?" "Yes, it fits the new params. So, don't worry. Have a great day!" Tare once again declines a call: hometown drivel. Tate begins to take inventory of memories she is willing to donate to the new project. Ac least tomorrow is the H.O.A.'s bi-weekly pocluck. Tate tries co cycle through different H.O.A. volunteer positions, which gives her slighcly different donatable memories to cache for any new ghost worker's contract. Ghost workers, a catch-all label for nameless grunts, who do the visual ragging in deep-machine learning for che A.I.D. Tate feels her phone buzz. The Company's app confirms receipt of the information packet. Countdown: 3 hrs. oo ruins. Wait! What? She has until 3 p.m. to upload a memory or the Company will use her collected memory. le is not just a collected memory. It is Tate's WRITING CONTEST WINNERS most cherished memory. No! Ir is her most cherished memory they are going to cake, trademark, and bastardize for the A.I.D's new project. Tate sees red. A slightly under inflated, red balloon is making its wobbly way across the park. The balloon's broken, pink ribbon is trailing along, waiting for small chubby finge.rs to once again reach out to grab a hold. Breathe.. .Tate reads che parameters of the project: happy; more than cwo people; preference event; preference summertime. The pressure on Tate's chest is like a coo-tight elastic band wrapped around her heart. From her hidden spot on the bench, she scans the park for acquaintances. Due to che deep-machine coding process for visual images in A.I. development, donated memories degrade after one use. The private ghost workers' chacroom was created to try co warn each other about potential donated memory requirements, for upcoming projects, like an anniversary celebration, pick-up hockey game, gardening etc. Tate sees another aparcmen c owner from her building, Alessia, who is having a birthday party for her littl e girl, Alannah. Tare joins the party's fringe. She drifts past some debris on 21 • w 49 FICTION HONORABLE MENTION the grass - paper hats, noisemakers, gift wrap etc. Sh e makes her movements a slow spiral, meandering inwards so as not to alert the hose. Her fingers rub the butterfly's body of the pin, which she fastens on the left side of her jacket at heart level. Tate needs 20 minutes co lay down a usable memory. Countdown: 2 hrs. 37 mins. "Tate," says Alessia, "what are you doing here?" "I came over to say happy birthday to Alannah." "You need to go. We don't need you triggered." "I'm fine. I can ..." "No." Alessia signals to Alex and Dustin, h er cousins, to block Tate's view of the party. Countdown: 2 hrs. 22 mins. Tate exits the park with the smell of popcorn, BBQ, and the sounds of happy families , ushering her out. She walks past the AR-, VR-, and Sim-stores, with their flashing neon signs. For whatever reason, chose types of memories do not encode on the brain's neural pathways like memories created in the real world, in real time. Tate strikes up a casual conversation with Vinny, Mobile Dogs' food truck owner. The impatient que forces her to move. She tries the neighbourhood coffee shop to see if she can crash Miller and Michael's cribbage game. Because she spends so much time people watching, Tate believes she knows her neighbours: where is eve1ybody? In frustration, she almost throws her cell when it rings - decline! As she looks for people, Tate pretends co window shop. Countdown: oo hrs . 23 mins. "Tate, wait up," says Ethan. "Kim's been trying to call you." Countdown: oo hrs. 20 mins. "Been working." "That's why I'm in the city. Kim and I are having a baby!" Countdown: oo hrs. 19 mins. "Hey, I'm sorry..." says Ethan. "You're looking for a job?" "Something remote. I know we lost touch. But you know..." "It's okay." "So, does your place have anything?" "You know how to tag visual images?" 22 WRITING CONTEST WINNERS X "Yeah!" "I can probably set you up. My boss called and said I have to start today at 5. I was supposed to get three weeks off." "I just need to tag visual images?" "Yeah ...1 need the time." "I get it." "Okay.. .let me call my boss and see about doing some of the subbing prelims." Countdown: oo hrs. 14 mins. "Hello," says Pam. "Hello," says Tate, "I have an LC. substitution." "Really?" "Yes, I'd like to introduce you to Ethan." Countdown: oo hrs. 12 mins. Tate tunes out Ethan and Pam, who are discussing some of the job's particulars. Tate wants to scream. Scream. And SCREAM, until the echoes bounce off all the buildings in the neighbourhood; until the echoes build to such a crescendo chat she can gather and weave chem all together into a whirlwind. / am going to: smash all of Rani's Pizza's tacky, orange patio furniture; sweep up that vintage, yellow V\V bug and rip through the park; teardown all the mom-and-pop shops with cutesy, hipstaapartment living above. Tate stands on the sidewalk watching tiny, b lack ants march through a fa11en Neapolitan ice cream cone. Their antennas wagging back and forth as each scan for the right morsel to pick-up and cake home. A childhood delight now reduced to a mild annoyance for afternoon strollers. Tate fiddles with the butterfly pin. Countdown: oo hrs. 5 mins. "Ethan CaddelJ, do you acknowledge you are a wil1ing substitute for Tate Clifi:lands, as the Independent Contractor for A.I.D. project 47';)5F2, which begins at 5 p.m. today?" says Pam. "Yes!" "Ethan Caddell, do you accept, and agree to, all of the A.I.D.'s Independent Contractor Terms and Conditions?" Countdown: oo hrs. 3 mins. "Yes!" Countdown: Transferred. "Great, come down and we'll get you started." WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 23 FICTION HONORABLE MENTION Tate escorts Ethan to the correct LRT connection to take him to the Company's headquarters . He is now an official ghost worker; "ghost worker" that catch-all label for nameless grunts. For those in the job, ghost workers are the unfortunates who lose their Company collected memory. Tate isn't sure how the collected memory is warehoused at the Company, while at the same time remains accessible to her, in her brain. Yet, access promptly stops when the coll ected memory becomes a donated memory. Ghost workers, who lose this particular memory, will change over time; gradually, dayby-day interest wi ll be lost in hobbies, friends , and family. Entering her building, Tate pauses to look at the woman's reflection in the elevator's door. Her butterfly pin h angs lopsided. She has made the holes bigger in her jacket where the back of the pin weaves through. She is still wearing loafers , beige pants, and a slightly too big, brown jacket over a white t-shirt. Her brown h air still goes to her shoulders; the slight wrinkle is still there between her brows; the fine lines at her temples and the sides of her mouth are still there; she is still there. In the elevator going up, Tate's phone pings a notification. Thank you for helping Ethan get a job! I didn't do much . You did - thank yo u!!! Just connected him to an acquaintance. Sorry about the calls - lol! After entering her apartment, Tate returns her keys, and the pin, to the small bowl. She opens her closet door. She drops her jacket. She starts yanking hangers. The current rod pops out of its sockets. She carefully removes the crayon drawing. She walks over to the fridge. Tate gently tapes the purple clouds, pink rain, and oversized, blue tree drawing to the fridge . Tate calls Mrs. Walker to ask if the dinner invite is still good. "Why, yes, yes, it is. 7 p.m." "Thank you .. .Thank you, Edna." The crayon drawing, taped to the fridge , is visible from anywhere in her apartment. T 24 WRITING CONTEST WINNERS ):( ):( ):( ):( ):( ):( ):( NON FICTION ):( ):( ):( ):( FIRST PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION GRANDDAUGHTERS OF XOCHIQ!IETZAL Xochitl Leal T wo litcle girls in thin, white cotton dresses emerge out of the front door of a small stucco house. The glint from broken glass and pebbled walls catch fractured light, glittering all around them. An aluminum screen door slams behind as they descend, single file, faces uptumed--squinting up into the midday sun; the concrete stairs warm the bare soles of their feet . Their small folded arms hug bundles of fragrant floral bouquets tightly against their chests; the ruscle of plastic wrapping interrupts the hushed atmosphere. They cross a bristly lawn to the front gate; a vacant shopping cart sits on the sidewalk just outside. The two of them carefully stack these packages of exotic flowers , the mingling of unknown fragrances filling their nostrils. These flowers: still cold from sitting in the basement fridge, still in shock from having been pulled from their tranquil dream state and stuffed tight into dark crates, then travelled along extended 26 stretches of highway in refrigerated trucks, crossed borders, swapped languages, stifled in a taut wooden box, wedged open, hammered shut, and tossed around by custom officers. These flowers still holding within them the songs of the workers who planted them, who cut them: Hibiscus heads lolling back and forth, the dry prairie air sucking out the last of their moisture, white, crimson-edged Carnations; petalled catacombs of orange and fuchsia Dahlia, plumed Birds ofParadise; delicate Baby's Breath tucked in between golden Marigolds, Cempasuchil, whose petals bridge the gap between the underworlds to the land of the living. The girls did this over and over, climbing the stairs, gathering more flowers after their father meticulously tightened ribbons around each bouquet, then laying them in their steel cradle: ascending, descending until the cart was full. They then held up their prized porcelain dolls, named for Xochip ili and his twin Xochiquetzal: creator and WRITING CONTEST WINNERS ):( protector of flowers. They placed chem down on top of the pyramid of flowers. Stiff in blue velvet and lace Victorian p anes suits with yellow ringlet h air. The wheels squeaked and bounced on every crack. They cook turns pushing the cart while the hummed and skipped beside, their long h air swaying, dresses twirling, liccle fingers tracing the heavy embroidery of red flowers chat bordered their n eckline and cap sleeves. Miss Susie had a steamboat, The steamboat had a bell. Miss Susie went to heaven, The steamboat went to.. Hello operator, Please give me number nine. And if you disconnect me I'll chop of your.. . Behind the refrigerator There was a piece of glass. Miss Mary sat upon it. It went right up her... The drapes swayed in the front window of the first house they went to. No answer. From across the street, their neighbour stood in front of his open doorway and yelled at chem: "This ain't Mexico, you know," his b elly shaking at chis hilario us observation - the longhorn belt buckle threatening co pop open. His wife peered out over his shoulder, "yeah, you realize that, don't you? We don't do things like this here. Not in this country, we don't!" The sis ters looked into each other's faces and repeated their m antra: "Just ignore them." They continued, door to door, block after block, hands rose in the comers of windows; curtains p arted, pulled back, and then swifcly shut. Eyes appeared in small windows on old, wooden doors, but most wo uld not answer. They would not op en. The dream of running after the ice cream truck with fists full of bills was slowly melting away. The WR ITI NG CONTES T WINNERS 27 FIRST PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION girls parked their cart in front of each house, walked up and down exterior stairs, stood on front doorsteps, knocked and pressed doorbells. While they waited they would pick at the rust on the black handrails, they pulled long strips of peeling paint off of front doors, discussing what they would do with all the money they would make. "Edmonton has never seen many of these flowers, they will love the colours," their father cold chem, "they won't believe the smells, who would say no to two little girls-- just watch!" His eyes sparkled at chem as he rubbed their cheeks with the back ofhis fingers. Ask me no more questions, Please tell me no more lies. The boys are in the bathroom, Zipping down their ... Flies are in the city, The bees are in the park. Boys and girls are kissing In the D-A-R-K, dark A few people bought some of these lovely bouquets but only after enquiring where their parents were, and their shoes? Why were grown-ups always wanting chem co wear shoes? A chin man with dark-rimmed glasses and sandy blonde hair wanted chem co come in co see how the flowers would look in his dining room; he needed their help choosing the perfect flowers. 28 He would so appreciate it! And he had ice cream. Didn't they wane ice cream on a hoc day like today? He leaned out of the door frame looking past chem, up and down the street; cook a step cowards chem, as they took several back - stumbling backwards down the stairs. They ran. Boch leaning in and pushing the cart together, passing the rest of chat block and the next, liccle hearts pounding, chests heaving. They turned the corner, looked over their shoulders and were safe: he hadn't followed chem. Their feet hurt, their lungs ached, che pavement was almost too hot co walk on, and the sun scorched their backs and the tops of their heads. An elderly woman, a couple of houses down, called out, beckoning them co come over. "You poor honeys, you look a little lost, come in and have some juice and cookies," she called from the seeps of a squat house. It was a relief co sit down at her litcle window cable, a tidy array of digestive cookies on a china place and two glasses of apple juice set in front of them. A TV game show host blared from another room. "Why are you girls pushing a care of flowers," the elderly woman, asked. They weren't sure. "Our aunts sent them from Mexico, people love flowers." They couldn't tell her the whole truth, it was impolite - they would get rich. She inquired about their ages, their WRITING CONTEST WINNERS ):( names, did they know not to come into strangers' homes unless they had a "Block Parent" sign in the window as she did? "Call me Mrs. Babychuk, I'm a granny block-parent, a granny can never have enough grandkids." "We don't have grandparents," the older sister said softly. They had no family in this country, besides their parents. She did all the talking. " I am 10 years old, fours years older," pausing to savour that statement, "until fall when my little sister turns 7, then I'll be only three years older, but right now I am four years older." As the cookies disappeared, Mrs. Babychuk shuffled back into the kitchen, her slippered feet rhythmically rubbing on the protective, plastic, carpet-covering. She came back with a plate full of crackers and cheese, and two decorative Pysanky eggs in her apron pocket. "My mother taught me to make these when I was little in Ukraine, every Easter we made them. They have to be made in secret you know, and best under the full moon. We used flower petals to make colours. They will protect you from witches and bring you so much luck. Keep them by your bed, let them take your bad dreams." The girls palmed these smooth, delicate eggs, turning them over to admire the detailed designs between mouthfuls of crackers. They peered out of this spacious, living room window, the curtains pulled back and tied with a big cloth bow. The light slanted in, reflecting off the formica tabletop, and they watched neighbours walking by, waving up, Mrs. Babychuk leaning back to raise herself from her chair and walking over to open the door. She greeted neighbour after neighbour, laughing, exchanging news and garden produce. And she did this over and over: ascending, descending. While the girls sat silently watching, crumbs falling onto the dolls on their laps. Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly Lavender's green \Vhen I am King, dilly, dilly You shall be Qyeen! Call up your men, dilly, dilly Set them to work Some to the plough, dilly, dilly And some to the pond. Some to make hay, dilly, dilly Some to cut corn While you and I, dilly, dilly Keep ourselves wann . ., WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 29 w \l _;J I 49 SECOND PLACE CREATIVE NONFICTION ANSWER Samantha Huang ' ' If I had the choice to feel that way all the time, and be here with you, I would. I would never leave this bed." You were answering my question. I had asked what it was like to try Oxycodone. I'd never been told something like that. Maybe a candle was lit because the air seemed pink in my memory. No, it was a lamp. Maybe you were high. You were probably high. I didn't trust it when I heard the words that followed. You loved to smoke, too. Though, I knew when they happened, when I heard, chat they would be branded both in my brain and on my forehead. I heard it. Then I figuted I would carry your face around for the years chat came after you. Then the years came. You were answering my question. I just knew it by oxy then. Or percs. But I remember it diffosely as scratches. Scratches on a white boy's back. On calves, thighs. "I fell in a bush." The rationale didn't seem so lazy at the time. Nor was it necessarily out of character. Drinking is normal. That's how friends have fun together. That's how I made friends . Stayed friends. The irritation at the 30 question is what gave it away. The slant of his face when he was tired, high. It was plot. Something to b e worried about. It took me outside of myself Outside of my home. What I also knew is that it felt good. This feels good after your dad dies. \'\Then you can't focus in school, when you're shit at school. But you're fucking funny. You're the funny one, yo u make people laugh, and you're brave. You're brave and you're trying things. That's what you're good at. This was plot. A matter of time. The dimmer months come, then. Still outside of my home, where the pink light lit, I was playing yo ur video game. I didn't have to drink, now, but I was away. Make, see, walk, shoot, kill. Away. You clutched my leg. You shook. You never got nervous, and then yo u were. Or were yo u sick 7 I watched you, hunched, walk. Something like a chunky faucet could be heard from the bathroom. Then you came back, clutching. You asked why I wouldn't stop playing. Shaking more now. And even more, you were crying. Okay, I would stop, then. Footballs. Green boys, blue boys. New oxy. Better. Fenty. WR ITING CONTEST WINNERS I heard chat shit all the time. I heard you jostle the knuckle of your index back and forth over che space between your nose and mouth after. Face screeched, then scrunched. If I had the choice to feel chat way all the time. And y ou chose otherwise. That's where the if came in. Just scratches. Just plot. Bue you cried, shook. Sweaty, cold. You cried because you were never going to feel chat way again, you said. You were never going to feel chat way, again. It's really fucked up, you said. It was Thursday night. On Friday morning, I had Comp Civ with Mr. Figg. never leave. It also feels good to be a baby, again, rocked, shook. Babies cry when they wane to be held. Or eat or shit. I knew chis felt good because I asked you to do che same for me when you were new to me. In more plot than words. So I held you. I wondered how long before I could play the game again, half away. Then I thought of Reese. Reese was fucked up now. A year ago he wasn't. A girl in White Rock died, coo. Simone knew her. She thought she was doing coke. Somebody cold me they saw Reese on the Skytrain. He had a big backpack, a sleeping bag. Here, the corners of the sheets never stayed tucked. A boy's room. The elastic was getting old. The cotton would get all tangled, loose. Blue light from the console. So I held you, all the time. So I would be here with you. and be here with you. I reach up into the hoc air above me now and I imagine chat when I draw the shadow of your face you could hear me. I say sorry to you every night like chat. For a long time I could n ot grieve for chat time. That time when there was so much time chat it couldn't end. Even though it's just me, now, I savour chat it didn't. T hen the years came. T WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 31 I~ I ..· w 49 CREATIVE NONFICTION HONORABLE MENTION THE MANIN THE MIRROR, THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD Braedon Lowey ''Are you sure you should be going out tonight?" I ask him. "You look tired." He glances down at the bathroom sink and cakes a moment to chink about it. He stares at it for so long chat I begin to wonder if he's gone somewhere else, until he finally picks up his phone and begins typing a message. "You're not going to message him, are you?" I ask, incredulous. "He's going to try and force you to come out." He looks at me, confused, and I continue. "What are you going to tell him? Lie and say you're sick? He'll know. Just don't message him. I know you don't want to lie, but you don't have to. Just go to bed, and in the morning, you can say you weren't feeling well and fell asleep. He'll understand. Or, he just won't care. How much do they want you there anyway, right? He probably won't notice that you didn't show up." He sets his phone down and leans backwards, collapsing against the 32 wall. We stare at each ocher until , resignedly, he crawls into bed, and I leave him to sleep. The first time I introduced myself ro him, years ago, he sobbed. He'd known of me before then. Heard of others meeting their own versions of me. Wondered if chis day would come, and how he would know if it did. I made sure chat he wouldn't have to wonder. He would know. He rinsed the shampoo out of his eyes as warm water ran down his back and steam filled the room. His weary muscles loosened, lulled into a sense of securi cy by the warmth surrounding him in che way it rarely does after we enter this world. He opened his eyes, confident chat he had cleared away the stinging chemicals, but found that tears still streamed. Then he saw me, standing in the glass doorway of the shower. "You don't know what this feeling is," I said to him. I did not tell him how WRITING CONTEST WINNERS ):t accustomed to it he would become. "You've never felt anything like it before. It is an overwhelming sense of despair, an unshakeable sense that nothing is, has been, or will ever go right. Nothing has brought it here, and nothing will make it go away. It is relentless and intangible, inside you and all around you." I did not ask him ifhe understood. He didn't have to. All he needed to know, as he sat on the floor of the shower tasting salt in the water chat ran down his face , was chis: "It's your fault that you feel this way." I am the feeling. I am his reflection, a copy of his worst self that greets him in the mirror. We have been face to face for years now. He wears a smile today as he splashes cold water on his face. It's one that I've seen before. He's met someone that he thinks could love him. He looks at me, almost expectantly, but I mirror his smile and stay quiet for now. It isn't prudent to be constancly announcing myself - I must let him have his moments. He smiles harder at my silence and begins to shave the hairs from his face . I copy his movements and smile too, knowing that I am right here and he does not see me. I'm unlike him in that I do not n eed to seek attention or confirm that I'm participating in life somehow. I am acutely aware of my purpose and when I am fulfilling it in a way that he could never hope to be. I wait, because he is still enamored by the mystery of what's to come, and whether or not he will be by someone's side in the near future. It is much more important for me to rip away love itself than merely the possibility of it. I must let him have his highs and successes, so that I may drag him down harder. That's the way it works. Emotions are not a spectrum or a grid, they are an absolute value. A moment of euphoria can become a suicidal thought in the blink of an eye. He knows this too, and has learned how to weaponize it the same way I have - he's held blades to his skin and laughed in my face. I laugh back at him. He misunderstands me. I don't want him to hurt himself I only aim to keep him grounded. For -every pe ak he summits, I am waiting in a valley to remind him that he is not invincible. I allow the momentum to build in this new venture with the same degree of calculation chat he wastes on shaping che curls of his hair. WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 33 CREATIVE NONFICTION HONORABLE MENTION I've seen chem together since. They seem happy. he's stopped studying me in the mirror the way chat he used co. They're talking about me in the bath. "I guess it's been going on forever, in one way or another," he says of my visits. "But it got really bad when I was 14." He cells her about the time I brought him to his knees. She listens carefully. "I know what that's like," she says. "Do you treat it at all?" It, as if I am merely a thing. I am a part of him coo. "I used to," he says, "but I don't need to as much anymore. I've gotten good at living with it." He lies. he chinks he needs me. I cell him chat I make him interesting. I help him feel things deeply, co write his stories and poems. I make myself valuable enough co not be exterminated. I convince him chat I am necessary, and it's easy to do because it's the truth. To gee rid of me would be to sever a limb chat he's had his entire life. "That's good," she says. They continue seeing each other until I find an opportunity. He's just walked her out and he is beaming. He chinks she may be the one. T his is che moment. He is getting ready for his day and foo lishly looks over at me. "You'll never be to her what she is to 34 you," I say. I've done it so many times and he still falls for it when I use his own love against him. I stare into the mirror, standing in his body, no longer his reflection. He stares back at me from beyond the glass. Only moments ago che same eyes chat looked into chis mirror with love and hope now project contempt and indifference. The mongrel in the mirror stares back, a hollow reflection. He does not, and could not ever, unde"rscand chat I do this in order to protect him. He cannot be allowed co roam his world untethered, out of my grasp, for he will wear his heart on his sleeve until it is taken away or shattered beyond repair. He would saunter through the terrors of the modem world with no forethought whatsoever. Without me, without fear and despair and sadness, he would be reckless. And without him, I do not exist, so I muse keep him safe. That means I cannot allow chis new bond co continue. He has experienced love before, and felt it be withheld from him. Anyone who loves him is a liability, the least trustworthy, the most powerful. It's my duty to intervene. But he won't listen co me when I cell h im these things. There's only one way co convince him not to pursue chis. WRITING CONTEST WINNERS "You do not deserve this," I say. "You do not deserve this," he echoes in the glass. "You should crawl back into bed where you belong," I say. "You should crawl back into bed where you belong," he says. "You're worthless," I say. "You're worthless," he says. His eyes swim with brimming tears and I have never before experienced the way they look at me. We have exchanged looks of love, hatred, fear, admiration, respect, disgust, gratitude, but never pity. I falter, and there is a shift; a struggle for dominance. I am no longer sure which of us is in the mirror until he speaks. "You don't deserve this," he says. "You don't deserve this," I repeat. "You are loved," he says to me. "You are loved," I am forced to say back co him. "I am loved," he says. "I am loved," I am forced co say. I am disgusted, I chink to myself Never has he flipped me back into the mirror so fast. Never have I lost control so quickly. He wasn't lying - he has indeed gotten good at living with me. He stares at me, challenging me to try again. I meet his gaze and silently cell him that I am waiting, once more, for a moment when he is not prepared. "I won't ever stop," we declare simultaneously, a promise to ourselves and the other. I realize, then, chat there is no way for me to grow stronger in this war. I have .been as powerful as I will ever be &om the first day, and he has risen to contest me. I have a brand new thought as I look at him - a thought that he has voiced co me so many times, but never me to him - and I do not voice it, but I know he knows as his lips curl into a smile. I fear you. T WRITING CONTEST WINNERS 35 T '' Our car is buried in snow so deep) my father has to dig a trench just to reach the gravel driveway. GRACE• FRANCIS KING• FIRST PLACE POETRY t u 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 POETRY 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 FIRST PLACE POETRY / GRACE Francis King 1W Our car is buried in snow so deep, my father has to dig a trench just to reach the gravel driveway. I follow in his footsteps, kicking up little tufts of snow. It is still dark. Slowly, morning beats itself back into the world, like a shovel against cold ground. Light from the church parking lot ne..Yt-door illuminates my father's flushed cheeks. \Vith a gloved finger I dig into the snow on the passenger side window and engrave my name in ice. The car is resurrected. I climb into the front seat and wann my hands under my thighs. The heat isn't working. My breath puffs out in front of me, little tufts of life. As we drive down the old count1y road, the plastic sheet cove1ing a broken window in the backseat flaps wildly . Intermittent streetlamps cast out darkness and project my name onto my lap. I sing my favourite Sunday school song, and the flapping plastic sings along with me. Years lacer, as I swallow a pill the colour of warm cheeks on a cold winter moming, I sing that same song, and my flapping heart sings along with me.--..ii 38 WRITING CONTEST WINNERS SECOND PLACE POETRY / THE ORANGE POEM (BY CAPITAL I) Yana Tarassova 1W I woke up this morning and smiled at the blue window as it poured orange juice onto the white wa lls, For a second, i w ished painting them happy; that you were still in bed, I unwrapped myself gently whispering in yow· dreams; from the white sheets, For - only - a second reached for the alarm clock (the second when I realized and set it two days behind; that for a second day I have not heard from you) I walked to the kitchen, i wished that I cou ld see you; (dust on the cold parquet floor sticking i thought of wea1ing my t-shirt inside to my bare feet) in, my inside out (the way that you had and made myself wanted me to) a big cup of black coffee; the bitter smell took over the air But you knew, that I know too well (th e way that your love takes the smell of rotten oranges over my reason); and the black srains I sat on the kitchen countertop on the insides (outside of white t-shirts); wea ring nothing but i w ished that I could say: I don't ca re; my whitest t-shirt, I'll probably call you sometime, inside out (so that my inside stays in); I'll say: I don't mind; For a second, i wished I have a box full of oranges. "Sill that you were in the shower, (the scent of your lemongrass soap reaching in to kiss me); WR ITI NG CONTEST WINNERS 39 POETRY HONORABLE MENTION / MOTHER Francis King iw His neighbour has gotten used co the sounds of hammers and saws, the grinding of power cools echoing across the field. She checks 011 him when she can. Before a graveyard shift at the county hospital, before her daughter drops off her grandkids for the weekend. She sends her husband over with jugs of water and cords offirewood. No power in che blistering East Coast winters. She remembers his mother, her Elsie, stopping in for a cup of tea on her way home from driving him into cown. He was 16 then, bell-boccomed, hair down co his shoulders, and Elsie was already sick. Wrapped in her terry cloth robe, his neighbour shuffles over co the patio doors and looks out across the field. She sees an oil lamp flicke1i11g in che kicchen window. She knows he is up and working. He has seen people talk co their loved ones' graves on celevision, pleading with the cold granite. He does nor ralk co her. He listens co the soft waves againsc che rocky shoreline and finishes his joint. Pocketing che roach, he walks back across the road. He lights the oil lamp and looks around the kitchen at che half-finished walls. He is all alone, jusr him, the ocean, and che woodscove, and the burning oil. She sees the light and walks down the hall co her bedroom. --.SO He sics at the cable and rolls a joint, the light from the oil lamp casting shadows 011 the white paper sliding becween his fingers . \Vhen she looks our again, the lamp is our. She sees him walking across the road co the church, the cheny of his cigarette one step ahead of him in che dark. He is going co see her. She pucs 011 che kecrle. She should gee some resc, bur she'll waic unril she sees the light in the window again. 40 WRITING CONTEST WINNERS POETRY HONORABLE MENTION / ESCHATOLOGY Xochitl Leal v This is how rhe end of rhe world looks: your face nesrled in my neck my fingerrip rraces your spine you are a flame wave,ing in rhe f,igid nighr like trurh consumed by a lie This is how the end of rhe world feels: it is cigarerre smoke exhaled inro an airrighr car chilled fingers stroking.frozen hair ir is my ear ro your bony chest like bird's wings flapping against glass rhe firsr breath in rhe dark morning air This is how the end of the world sounds: it is rhe wild whisper of rhe ocean trapped in an empry shell a chair dragged across a wooden floor and rhe echo from rhe deprhs of a well like laying face down in rhe dirt a heavy boot on my spine I am rhe embers being stamped out at night like srars swallowed up by the sky it is licking rhe metallic residue from your cut, swollen lips holding my breath, palms against rhe wall it is the distant memo,y of warmth; cheeks pressed into a Mother's /rips This is what was spoken, prophesied as it was w1itcen This is the end of it all "