MONTRÉAL WRITES / ISSUE 2.4 by Montréal Writes

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FICTION EDITOR

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Andres Garzon

MONTRÉAL WRITES

Montréal, Québec, Canada

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VOL. 2, ISSUE 4

First Things 2 Masthead 4 Contributors

Fiction 26

J A R R E D by Lea Beddia

S T R A Y by Megan Callahan

Flash Fiction 13

T H E L A K E by Kate Foster

Non-Fiction 16

C R E A T U R E S O F A M O M E N T by Samantha Thayer

Poetry 15

M O T H E R S by Judy Fischer

P O E M S by Danielle La Valle

P O E M S by Osher Lee

E C L I P S E Y E A R by Jeff Parent

B U R N I N G A N D S T I L L N E S S by Yves Saint-Pierre

P O E M S by Ksenija Spasic

â&#x20AC;¢ APRIL 2019

CONTRIBUTORS L E A B E D D I A (Jarred p.26), was born in Montreal. Her passion for literature has bred into a passion for writing. She studied Education at McGill University, and is currently completing a Creative Writing certificate at Concordia University. She enjoys all forms of writing, especially literature for young adults, and children. She aspires to have her young adult manuscript published. Visit her website: http://www.leabeddia.com or find her @LeaBeddiaWriter. M E G A N C A L L A H A N (Stray, p.6), is a fiction writer, book reviewer, and translator from Montreal. Her work has appeared in publications such as PRISM, Matrix, Vallum Magazine, and Québec Reads. When she isn't writing, she likes to make music, bake bread with her partner, and peoplewatch from her balcony garden.

norms of femininity. O S H E R L E E (Poems, p.22) is a high school teacher turned graduate student living in Montreal. He studies the way the internet impacts young people, their learning, and the environment. Lately, his favourite poets include Leanne Simpson, Adrienne Rich, Audre Lorde, Billy-Ray Belcourt, and Maggie Nelson. J E F F P A R E N T (Poem, p.12) is a dad, comic book enthusiast, and some kind of poet. His poems have been published by The Fiddlehead, Words(on) Pages, Lemon Hound, and The /tƐmz/ Review, amongst others. Jeff is currently enrolled in a Creative Writing MA at Concordia University and lives in Sherbrooke, Québec.

YVES S A I N T- P I E R R E (Poem, p.25) J U D Y F I S C H E R (Poem, p.15) is a Montrealer recently retired as chair of the English department by love and choice. She is the author of He Fell from at John Abbott College. Unlike many other poets, the sky and Missy Loves René, two books published in he is guessing, has killed two bears–one years ago for bounty and one more recently, in self-defense. the last two years. Often he reads and sometimes he plays golf. K A T E F O S T E R (The Lake, p.13) is a Black Nova Scotian whose writing has appeared in K S E N I J A S P A S I C (Poems, p.10) is a poet, Understorey Magazine, Canthius and Room Magazine. English professor and visual artist who is trying to keep her heart susceptible and her words agile. She lives with her family in Dartmouth, NS. D A N I E L L E L A V A L L E (Poems, p.19) is a writer of short fiction and poetry. She enjoys expressing herself through a variety of mediums but her true passion has always been to write. She has been writing stories since she was seven and in that time has managed to fine-tune a quirky imagination into a unique voice. Her writing tends to be dark but is often tinged with hope. She often employs supernatural themes as a way of navigating the female experience in general, and more specifically, the experiences of women whose emotional and psychic landscapes are at odds with perceived

S A M A N T H A T H A Y E R (Creatures of a Moment, p.16) is a creative writer studying both English Literature and Interior Design in Montreal. She was born and raised in a small town that has inspired many of her creative works. When she is not pursuing creative endeavors, she is working in professional pet care or furthering her education.

F I C T I O N by Megan Callahan

STRAY

y the time Mariel arrives at the water's edge, the sun's hanging low. The sky is slowly darkening like a bruise. Dry leaves scuttle around her leather boots and get caught like weeds in the cracked black pavement. She grips the railing with both hands and spits into the canal, hoping to hawk up the nauseating taste of tobacco sitting on her tongue. No luck. She swallows hard. On the opposite shore, the rusted husk of the abandoned malting factory towers above trees—its graffitied silos mountainous and grey, and beyond them the redbrick sprawl of St-Henri. Mariel looks around, her trained eyes scouring the scene. A woman and her son toss bread to the pigeons. A handful of cyclists weave down the bike path, fewer now that the light is fading. She slips two fingers into her back pocket for the stale pack of Du Mauriers, her first pack in months. She lights up with her brand-new Bic. It's neon yellow, the only colour they had at the dep, and the sick brightness of it only makes her feel queasier. Arnaud turns up on foot after her third cigarette. Mariel tilts her head, blows smoke rings into the wind. "You're late," she says. "I've been waiting." "Calme-toi. Y fait pas encore noir." Arnaud is nearly a foot taller than Mariel. Broad frame outlined against purple clouds. He's in plain clothes, like her. Pouched bloodhound face shadowed in the half-light. Mariel notes his pink eyes and the pungent smell of weed. He's been her partner on the force for nearly five years. He knows her better than anyone else. With a look he sees the fear coiled inside her like a spring. Tight and metallic, ready to pop. As she grinds the end of her cigarette under a boot heel, he's

already rolling her a joint. "Tiens, lâche tes clopes." Mariel takes it gratefully. She tips her head back and inhales slow, letting the weed linger in her throat. She immediately feels better. Calmer. The small muscles around her neck and shoulders go slack. "Fucked up day," she says. "Fucked up en tabarnak." Arnaud leans his elbows against the railing and peers into the water. A few months ago, a local folk musician drowned near this spot. Accident or suicide, no one knows for sure. Mariel and Arnaud were two of the cops who trawled the canal and parts of the St. Lawrence, dredging up scrap metal and plastic bottles until her bloated body finally surfaced. Dozens of missing person f lyers are still stapled to telephone poles and pasted to the crumbling walls of metro tunnels. Mariel remembers the girl from her neighbourhood bar, a tall brunette with a ridiculous bird's name. She played the accordion and the fiddle, sometimes the guitar. Katherine Kingfisher? Or was it Magpie, or Loon? "C'est la dernière fois que je viens à ton secours." The anger in Arnaud's voice is quiet and razor-thin. "Tu m'écoute? La dernière esti de fois." "I didn't ask to be rescued," she retorts. "Fais pas l'idiote." "Fuck you. I could've done this alone." Arnaud shakes his head and says nothing. He knows when she's bluffing. Mariel scowls and kicks a loose pebble, sends it skittering over the edge. Streetlights across the canal f licker to life. "Listen to me. Okay?"

Arnaud places a callused hand on her shoulder. She feels him shifting gears, speaking her language, manoeuvring her with his Good-Cop voice. His accent barely perceptible after years of night school English. Inside, she bristles. "This is not the only way," he says. "Now you're being an idiot." "You have a choice." "Like hell I do." "Ça va te manger tout cru. I know you." Below them the water is f lat indigo. Mariel thinks of the drowned folk singer, her long brown hair knotted around her neck. When the divers dragged the body from the riverbed, there wasn't much left of her delicate bird face. Mariel heard the family had to look for childhood scars, for the distinct cluster of moles between her breasts. The image depresses her. A body soft as cotton, pulled apart by water and air. Even mollusks have shells. She imagines herself naked and wrapped in algae, fish and bottom feeders chewing on her eyelids. Mouths tenderly peeling away her skin. "The kid's dad," Arnaud continues. "He's a big shot lawyer." "Who gives a shit." "This isn't going to disappear." Arnaud's playing Bad-Cop now. Blunt and unf linching. Mariel wishes he hadn't mentioned the kid. She's spent the past twenty-four hours working on forgetting. A neighbourhood dealer, one she recognized from night patrols near the park,around eighteen years old. He smirked when she pulled him over and f lashed her badge. He looked her up and down and said: salut baby, you can pat me down any day—but that wasn’t what set her off. Maybe it was his peach-fuzz moustache, or the oversized T-shirt tucked messily into his belt—a band shirt that had clearly been worn to death, the printed white letters beginning to crinkle and peel away— Godsp ed Y u! Bla k Emper r!—like some halffinished game of Hangman. The kid showed her his teeth in a too-wide smile, stepped out of the car with one hand in his pocket. "I didn't mean to kill him," she says. "Je sais."

"I thought he had a weapon. He was reaching . . ." She remembers how quickly she unclipped her sidearm when the kid moved towards her. The smooth arc of the Glock 17 as it travelled up from her holster. Her aim was perfect. Was she the one who pulled the trigger? Or was it someone else, a doppelganger Mariel, some angry and hateful version of herself that she felt—still feels—swimming below the surface? She left him there like roadkill— took his phone and wallet, tried to make it look like a carjacking gone wrong. "Shut up," Mariel snaps, even though Arnaud has fallen silent. "Enough stalling." She tosses the butt of her joint and gestures to her partner. She's pleased to see that her hand isn't shaking anymore. Not even a tremble. "Hand it over." She can tell he doesn't want to. He narrows his eyes, shuff les his feet like he's about to walk away. Finally he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a plastic evidence bag. Inside is the bullet. Swiped from the coroner's office. She drops it in her palm, rolls it between her thumb and index finger. Examines the unique markings left by her gun barrel, the lines and grooves as damning as fingerprints. But in the growing dusk, the bullet could be anything: A pebble or a bottle cap. The core of an apple. A quarter thrown in the canal for luck. Mariel has never been much of a pitcher, but somehow she manages to hurl the bullet far, far out into the murk of the canal. It vanishes into the dark. She doesn't hear it hit the water. Only a few silver ripples disturb the placid current. She exhales with a feeling that isn't quite relief. She's f loating in place, strangely untethered, as though the bullet itself had been keeping her on the ground. "There. It's gone." Arnaud shakes his head, his bloodhound face even sadder than usual. Gone. Mariel crawls inside the word, lets it cover her like a protective shell. Eventually the bullet will be carried downstream, spewed into the gaping mouth of the river, or washed ashore, nestled between slick rocks,

refuse, and weeds. But even if someone finds it, plucks the anonymous piece of lead from the mud, what story can it tell? Mariel clutches the railing, swayed by a gust of wind. Une balle perdue, une balle errante. Now the bullet is simply stray. Like a wandering dog or a strand of hair. Something innocent and without intent.ďż˝

P O E T R Y by Ksenija Spasic

BETWEEN SEASONS Fall is what happens to you. Spring is what happens after you. When snow lets go of dead things and summer hasn’t collected them yet in all its chitiny claws and mouths, you see the heron’s wing-workings: tendon, bone and feather. You know it. You know it, but the high of all the white sucked up explodes in blue immortality. And every year, you outlive yourself, until you don’t. The world is parched: swamp blazes azure, chalk-green lake withdraws, exposing shores of shells - ghost riches, fields of undead grass rise up in hissing gold. Don’t hasten sleep. Take stock. This is the gap, the sandbar gasp in the flow. The trees are tinder; grit your heart - make fire! Before the rain falls.

P O E T R Y by Ksenija Spasic

BUTTERFLIES

When the sun hits the poplar, it chimes and there is a sky meringue brewing. So what if some of the blue is tense and a little snow falls? So what if the sting of being is a little blunted? I spent the day talking to my mother about adultery, her green and violet eyelids like wilted butterflies. I know where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m headed; doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop me wanting to tear through your chest into the day still ringing hard with winter.

P O E T R Y by Jeff Parent

ECLIPSE YEAR keep the kids at home I’ll do the walking today quest the coronal landscape where we used to walk and where those walks led for what’s there that ages but never seems to leave Everlasting Gobstoppers telephone booths the fundamental cling of narrative which I’ve been assured is illusory and should be chalked up to experiments with a new pen but anything can be an ingredient if you stir it in long enough mealy-mouthed day-campers troubling the Metro sure as furniture in the dark uncles-in-law spilling from the Haraiki Pub turned insubstantial by the sudden lack of context a breed of budgerigar prone to tumours falling to the steps of the Madre Dei Cristiani some misplaced version of God pulling it all together with eyes closed

F L A S H F I C T I O N by Kate Foster

THE LAKE

ante likes to tell stories. More than anything, he likes to make them. This is how he lives his life, moving from one story to another. I listen with my eyes fixed on his. The movement of his lips hypnotizes me and I inhale the carcinogenic sounds. When Dante calls me that night it is already dark, but the August moon is blazing in the sky. It radiates beams of amber among the night’s shadows. Dante has toked a few Js and his voice rasps in jazz-like notes across the line. “I’m f lying,” he says, “Let’s go fishing. I’ll get the gear. You can drive, cousin. We don’t need a f lashlight tonight.” Dante is always making plans. Everything he says jumps out of his mouth as a whole scheme. He does not ask if I want to go, but simply says, “Right on. See you when you get here.” I pocket my phone and start toward the door, pausing only to grab the f lashlight on my way out. When I get to Dante’s place, I find he is not alone. Peering in the front window of his grandmother’s house, I see that Dante’s friends are there, sinking into the f loral couch with glazed eyes, talking lyrically to themselves and each other. I stand on the outside for a while and watch Dante as he gesticulates wildly, his high-top dreads bouncing. I can feel the shape of the words as they f lip and slide into my imagination. Realizing our outing is not going to be an exclusive one, I tap out a beat on the window and interrupt the rhythm of their conversation. It takes them a while to rise, but finally Dante saunters into the yard where I am leaning against my mother’s Chevrolet. Josh and Tyler follow him, carrying fishing rods

and gear. We assemble ourselves into the car. This car that shuff les us all summer, from work to beach to liquor store, from parking lot to pub to party. I toss the f lashlight into Dante’s lap, but he ignores my subtle gibe. It is late and the road winding out of town toward the lake is quiet. Josh is in the back seat rolling another joint. Dante raps something about the time he got chased off a bridge by an old grey mutt. The boys are laughing and shaking their heads. Dante keeps putting his hands on the steering wheel and I keep pushing them off. We zigzag along like this until Dante suddenly shifts a long leg to the driver’s side and bangs his foot on the brake. Curses rise from the back seat and Dante steps out into the path of the headlights. His hand scythes its way through the air and points to the cemetery that spreads across a hill on the edge of town. Leaving the car on the shoulder of the road, we climb over the fence and dodge our way among the graves. We pause while Dante tells us about the ghost of his grandfather that can move pennies across his tombstone at the stroke of twelve. Since we have no pennies and it is not yet midnight, we return to the car and carry on. We fall silent as we reach the lake, remembering Dante’s step-brother who drowned two years ago. Josh and Tyler settle themselves on the tiny, weathered dock with their tackle, their phones alight to attract bait. Dante and I throw our gear into the musty, communal rowboat. Its cracked yellow paint feels like dry leaves in my hand as I climb over the side. Finally, I am alone with Dante. We row toward the center of the lake. The black water and indigo sky seem to merge into an abyss at the horizon. We cast our lines

carelessly into the water. Dante’s words push into the air again and fall over me like a thick blanket; the weight bearing on my shoulders. My fascination moves from the lull of his voice to the landscape of my own thoughts. I look up searching for Cassiopeia but not finding her. The moon is still brimming and there is so much I want to say. “I have one,” I say, still holding my line. Dante moves to net a catch, but I stop him. “Not a fish,” I say. “A story.” Words rush from my mouth as I begin to tell him my dream about Cassie. My Cassie, who passed by accident before we could help her. Walking out of a cave in the woods, she hands me a book where every other page is blank. Her other hand drops a pill bottle that disappears in a mound of sand at her feet. I stop suddenly as Dante reels in a thin speckled trout. The hook is piercing its lower jaw. Its writhing body a frantic scream. I reach out to stroke its side, the thousands of gleaming, protective scales. “How does it end?” Dante wants to know as he unhooks the trout. I take it, still f lipping, and drop it back in the lake. I shudder, still feeling the cold wet fish in my hands. “She walks across my grave,” I laugh. Dante laughs too. I stand and balance in the small boat. Throwing off the last of my reticence, along with my sweater and sandals, I dive for the moon’s ref lection, shattering the inaudible surface of the lake. The cold water sends pleasant shivers down my sides, and feeling the waves surround and buoy me, I swim invigorated toward the shore.�

P O E T R Y by Judy Fischer

MOTHERS I decided long ago to be a mother To have a baby of my own The woes of motherhood, obscured The trials and tribulations unknown The tiny thing, so pink and soft Instantly captured my heart Emotionally and mentally I was invested from the start Clinging for safety and nurture The baby gripped my breast From morning to night Comfortable in my arm’s youthful nest. With a tender touch I was the guide Through scrapes, bruises and fears Failures and successes Boyfriends and tears Driver’s license, new car Graduation and cheers And the years passed with speed The once clingy baby The product of my seed, Was ready for life, and left Into the world far away Never looking back To see if I was okay. I stand alone now The cord ripped from my womb Will I be useful again? Before they place me in my tomb. Maybe one day my child will understand When a baby will appear in her heart The role I played in her life Was my life’s best part. And, as the circle of life Will become clear and shear When her child, too, walks away I pray to God She will be okay.

N O N - F I C T I O N by Samantha Thayer

CREATURES OF A MOMENT

n Wednesday, I watched her steal a daylily from my garden. On the following Sunday, she chose an orchid. At first I thought she had mistaken them for hers. After all, our neighboring gardens nearly overlapped. It was on Thursday, I watched as her despairing gaze visited my home. Then, when she failed to see me hiding behind the curtain, she reached over and plucked a tulip. I respected that she was so careful—as though the f lowers were built of shattered glass and she was afraid of cutting herself. She always chose specific f lowers. Perfect specimens, regarding every petal. Her visits were infrequent enough to never affect the garden’s growth, as it still f lourished with over a dozen breeds of f lower. The reason behind her thievery was a mystery to me. Although she had been my neighbor for years, she hid beneath a dark baseball cap as though she was ashamed to look at the world. But she was not fearful. No, she stood tall and proud. One could gain a moment of confidence just by watching her. Her name was Ava. That was all I truly knew about her. I had made idle attempts to get to know her, but small talk could only get me as far as knowing that tomorrow might be a little cloudy. Her confidence made her challenging to face. I could never find the guts to press a conversation, let alone a confrontation. Truthfully, I hadn’t thought much about her until she started stealing from me. Before then, I was only aware that she didn’t appear to like other people much. So, I left her alone. Perhaps I should have confronted her on

the first day I caught her stealing. Something had prevented me, however, from swinging open the window and demanding to know why she didn’t take from her own garden. Part of me wanted to see where she went with it, the other half was focused on how depressed she appeared as she buried the f lower in her palm. I couldn't build up the courage to interrupt that, not until Monday came. In the early hours of that morning, I caught her once more, delicately pulling up one of my f lowers, which would now only have hours left before it wilted away. They only existed for a moment in time, after all. Opening the window felt wrong, but I did it anyways, if only to let in a carefree breeze that swept by me and raced eagerly into my home. I did not welcome it. I was already too focused on the girl in my garden, just as she was focused on me “Excuse me, but . . . just . . .” Talking was hard. It was always hard. Fighting my tongue to allow the worlds to roll off, rather than cram them back down my throat, was a constant battle. I suddenly wanted to shut the window in hopes that I could shut out that gnawing anxiety. She was stealing and yet I was worried I had interrupted her. “What are you doing?” My question fumbled out at last, but the breeze was no longer there to carry the vibrations of my quivering voice atop its vigorous waves. Instead, my words dropped to her, placing a visibly heavy weight on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” Unlike myself, she did not hesitate. She paused for only a moment and, in that brief passage of time, I watched her collect herself before she straightened to look

me dead in the eyes. “I know what I’m doing is wrong,” she said with the same despairing look she had on Sunday, “But I need this.” It was hardly an answer, barely the distant cousin of an explanation. I watched her focus on the f lower. “What do you do with them?” I asked, borrowing enough confidence to lean slightly out of the window. “I give them to someone.” The vagueness covered her intentions like a widow’s veil. “To who?” I asked. “Why can’t you bring your own?” “It’s not that easy to explain,” she responded. “Then can you show me?” I hadn’t expected she would crack, let alone cave. Strange as it was with our usual reluctance to share words, I was frantic that come Friday, there would be more than just a f lower missing from my garden. But somehow—miraculously—an agreement was made and I found myself walking side by side with mystery. There was no connection between us other than our overlapping gardens and stolen f lowers. Though, that was enough to lead me away from home on a short leash of curiosity. Of all the places I could have imagined she would bring me, a graveyard was the last of them. We entered through its gates, the fences’ sword tips stretching towards the late August skies. I wanted to tell her to turn around. I wanted to tell her that everything was okay. She didn’t need to show me so much. She didn’t need to show me where the f lowers went after all. Hell, if she wanted to, she could leave me right at those gates and, come Saturday, I could turn a blind eye when her hand trespassed onto my property to snatch away a rose. But I didn’t say anything; instead, I swallowed my words. When we came to a little gravestone that had the name “Sebastian” carved into its concrete f lesh, I lost all my borrowed confidence. “He loved your f lowers.” As she spoke, she lowered the carnation onto the head of the grave where it would eventually fade away. “We always told him to take the f lowers from

our garden if he wanted them… but when we weren’t looking he would just reach over to yours and . . . ” The wind caught her words, sweeping them away as easily as a stolen daisy, leaving us both in silence. The momentary inability to speak was cruel, but I understood it all too well. “He was your brother.” I remembered him. A head of messy brown hair and a wild smile that lasted even through the vicious effects of chemotherapy. “He never kept the f lowers, he just gave them to people.” Her expression was haunting, as though her eyes saw the past while her body lived in a tormentous present, fearful of her future. “They made him happy, so I guess he thought they would make others happy too.” I had asked where the f lowers went, but I hadn’t anticipated they would be only one of many in a cemetery of roses. A dying garden. More often than not, I think about that visit. Though the world may have continued to spin around in its usual pattern with merciless ignorance, everything changed for me. I began to sleep with my body curled into a fist of protest. The f leeting memory of a lively smile on a dying body became the centerpiece of my dreams. Now, every few weeks, I meet with a girl who hides beneath a dark baseball cap to plant a variety of f lowers, in our overlapping gardens. Then, on scattered days of the month, I wave to her from the window as she passes by. Then, on Tuesday, I watched her borrow a daffodil.�

P O E T R Y by Danielle La Valle

ALL WEEK A single crystalline tear A mildew stained ceiling What is magic But a fervent longing? The dead words I carry with me Meretrix, slatern, trollop Dead words have power And all week the moths came to me Their ermine capes Their rust coloured bellies â&#x20AC;&#x153;Take us to the darkâ&#x20AC;? And I did Their wings soft as new rose petals Grazing The dark cup of my palms

P O E T R Y by Danielle La Valle

SECRET ELECTRICITY The crackle and hum Of secret electricity Carried By water vapour Between Slices of velveteen To Your half-moon eyes Your Grecian nose These things That are not for me

P O E T R Y by Danielle La Valle

INTERSECTION

For one week The awkwardness of death hung low It stopped to play with peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hair And to read the cards taped to the traffic lights It plucked petals from the flowers people had left Poked its fingers into ice-cream cones And made swirls on the tops of cappuccino froth

P O E T R Y by Osher Lee

GOD IS SO HOT RIGHT NOW At the oofroof I wrap tefillin and, cloaked cozy in my bar mitzvah tallis, am asked to perform the coveted honour of hagba, raising the Torah above my head, spread wide and naked, for all to see. 7:30 in the morning, at a shul far from home, I wrap straps of leather around my head, around my bicep, arm, hand, and fingers, making sure they are tight enough to leave a mark (even now, hours later). With the phylacteries draped and hanging, I mustnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have impure thoughts. Though I do: memories of being a teen, joining the other boys in the early morning concentration, taking off half a shirt to wrap and be wrapped in leather. I centre myself by folding a prayer shawl around my shoulders, bringing together the knots and strings that fringe its four corners. The fabrics are redolent of my own history, And even the shmata factories of our past.

P O E T R Y by Osher Lee

My brother and his wife-to-be ask me to serve the difficult but sought-after role of raising the holy scrolls of the old testament to the heavens, opening it for the congregation to see, to sing to, to bless, to be blessed. In the anointed room of lights and memoriam, of stained glass and old men, I wrap leather around my skin, pressing and ripping into me, into my forehead, my forearm, my frame, my muscles, my flesh, my memories. I wrap cotton around my torso, pulling corners over shoulders, feeling edges on my neck. Breathing deeply through my nose, I remember who I was and am. I grip the scrolls of animal skin andâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;like a leverâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;I pull down to lift up the wisdom, heavier than expected, the words of past and present, and perhaps the future. I wonder. At the oofroof I wrap myself in tefillin, I wrap myself in my tallis, I wrap myself in memories, I wrap myself in family, and I raise the words for everyone to see.

P O E T R Y by Osher Lee

MORE AND OTHER

The less we interact with our senses, The more we are barred from the present, The more we are living in pasts and futures, Which canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist beyond our heads. So lips, please go on feeling, Tongue, please donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop tasting, Smells, please keep remembering, And hands, please hold some hands.

P O E T R Y by Yves Saint-Pierre

BURNING AND STILLNESS

This log lies up high on dry sand. Washed up decades ago, it is bleached and desiccated. Its surface is fissured like rough bark, the edge of each flake curled away from the break. Last night, before turning in, I placed a green log on the fire. This morning it lay fissured and flaked, perfect black echo to this that is white. This kinetic time warp, fire over weather-worn, startles to sadness of memory and loss, of choices, of burning and stillness.

F I C T I O N by Lea Beddia

JARRED

waited in line at the grocery store and stared at the tabloid magazines. I read a headline about a woman giving birth to a gorilla. Who reads that stuff ? I looked at the contents of my cart. How many jars had I filled in the last month? Fifteen at least. Maybe it was because I was more temperamental than usual. Was it hormones? Maybe it was because I had procrastinated correcting final exams and it was stressing me out. The woman in line ahead of me paid for her lottery tickets, and it was my turn to line up my items on the conveyor belt. The cashier weighed the fruit and scanned the case of jars. “Do you make jam with the peaches?” A staleness surrounded the cashier’s gruff voice. “I don’t make jam, but the peaches are excellent this year.” I tried to be polite, but I hate small talk. “Oh. That’ll be twenty dollars and ninetyseven cents, please.” I was relieved the cashier didn’t ask what the jars were for. Would she suspect I could trap people inside them? I handed over my credit card and the woman read my name. “Adina Mazara, that’s a nice name. What nationality is it?” The cashier scanned my hair, dark brown with a natural wave, to get her answer. My skin is café au lait, according to my concealer. I wanted to tell her it was none of her business. “I’m Canadian.” I know what she meant, but this way there wouldn’t be any followup questions. Any time I tell people my parents are Italian, they look at my dark

skin and nod, then make a mafia joke. If that happened, I feared the cashier would end up in a pile of dust and trapped in one of my jars, like the others. “Of course. Well, you have a nice name.” The cashier returned my credit card. “Have a nice day.” She handed me the bag of groceries, then the case of jars, and looked at me again. “Do you need help carrying those to your car?” “No, thank you.” At home, I set the case of jars and the grocery bag on the kitchen counter. I glanced at the shelf in the corner of the room, but not for too long. I heard rattling. It could have been the air vents as the cooling system kicked into gear, but the sound came from one of the jars. There were at least 50 of them lined up on the shelves. Among them were snarky classmates, judgemental distant relatives, a few ex-boyfriends, and a dog that almost bit me. It was the beaker clattering against the others. It contained my high school chemistry teacher. I had struggled for months in his class. I had enrolled because I wanted to be a vet, but my hope was crushed when I failed first term. Despite all my efforts, Mr. Pasio was an insensitive teacher who mocked my attempts openly. When balancing equations, he called on me to give the answer. “Adina! Can you at least do this equation? You get good marks in math, right? Easy peasy, come on.” I saw right through his compliment to the insult he lanced at me. He came too close and I saw his blue eyes squinting. By some magic, I shrank. It must have been something he’d concocted with

his chemicals. It converted my weaknesses into a fresh wound. I felt like a fish in an aquarium; I was on display through the glass, with all my faults magnified. I craved invisibility. Yes, I could balance the equation because it was a concept more of algebra than chemistry. Rather than answer the question, I stared at him. Normally, I would have averted my eyes from his, but not this time. I wanted to tell him what a jerk he was. As I opened my mouth to release my rage, he disappeared into a tornado of sand circling around me. I tried to wave it away, but it was like an insectile horde, changing direction with each swing of my arms. It got in my hair and eyes. I grabbed a glass beaker and a stopper from the back of the room, and then placed them on my desk. I had no idea what was happening, but I felt in control and I knew what to do. I was the one with the magic. To the dust cloud, I whispered through clenched teeth, “Go,” and I trapped my chemistry teacher. My classmates didn’t seem to notice and they continued with their equations. He’d spent close to twenty years inside the jar, and it was clear that he wanted to make an escape. I hurried to my junk drawer and pulled out the duct tape. I held the jar in place and taped it to the back of the shelf. I was out of breath. I peered in the jar. The dust particles swirled around. From my ref lection in the glass, I saw dark circles under my eyes and the weight I’d gained under my chin. Insomnia had worn me out. Certain the chemistry teacher wouldn’t budge, I sat down to read a book. I couldn’t help glancing at the shelf. The jar was steady, but I still perceived the sand swarming inside, trying to get out. I was worried the other jars would do the same, but they remained quiet. Restless, I stood again, this time studying the jar containing my first serious crush. I was in college, and I spotted him on our first day. We had a few classes in common, and worked on projects together. We would f lirt, hold hands, and sometimes kiss. Eventually,

I found myself in quiet corners pressed up against him, not always by choice. I made excuses for him, thinking boys will be boys. I never told him to stop, because I thought I was supposed to enjoy a boy’s advances. In an alley near campus, he held my wrists in his one large hand, bruising them. He untucked my shirt from the inside of my skirt and forced his other hand underneath it. I asked him to stop. Instead, his hand went up my skirt. I twisted my wrists free and fought him off. I wanted to tell him what he had just done was abusive, but instead, I ran back to school. The soles of my shoes stomped through the asphalt leaving indentations of my footprint. The ground shook and the boy crumbled to the pavement, leaving only rocks and sand in his place. He followed me, bouncing in small pebbles alongside me until I got to my locker. I emptied a jar containing pencils. “Just go,” I whispered. On my shelf, the rocks and sand that became of him sparkled in the sunlight cast on the shelf. Looking closely, I panicked to find there was another jar rattling. I picked it up. It was pink. I remembered the woman inside it. In my eleventh year of teaching, I met with the mother of a student to discuss the drastic decline in her son’s marks. “Jeremy failed this term. I don’t understand the problem. He says you don’t like him and are always on his case,” the mother griped. “I have no problem with Jeremy, but he doesn’t do his homework, which is why he’s failing,” I explained. This was true. Jeremy had been witty and keen until his marks and behavior took a dive. “Jeremy said you told him he’s lazy. Maybe you’ve been working them too hard. They’re just kids. What good is it for them to do so much work anyway?” The mother’s voice grew louder and I noticed parents in the hall peering into my classroom as they waited their turn to speak with me. I smelled alcohol on her breath. I knew the mother was ignorant to the changes in Jeremy’s mood. I knew it coincided with her binge drinking and his father’s abuse.

I couldn’t say this aloud because he had written to me in confidence in the only assignment he submitted during the term, which was supposed to be about gratitude. He stated he had nothing to make him feel grateful, then went on to explain why. He met with the guidance counselor, but it did little to change his habits. “I never said he was lazy. I said he lacked motivation. I would be willing to spend extra time with Jeremy to help him complete the work. If he spends lunch times with me catching up, I won’t count his work late.” “Oh yeah, so now he’ll have detention.” The mother made it sound like it was an insult to instead of a reasonable solution to getting his work done. I had met parents like her before: emotionally absent and trying to make up for it. I wanted to f lip the desk over, shake the mother and tell her Jeremy was devastated. She was oblivious. Instead, I told her, “Jeremy is bright, but he needs the right encouragement. I don’t think he’s getting support at home.” “The hell with this.” The truth about Jeremy pierced the mother, causing her to crumble like an old anthill, into a puff of sand. I emptied a jar filled with paperclips and whispered, “Go.” The parents in the hall didn’t notice. In my living room, I placed the pink jar back on the shelf, and although it was still rattling, I had an appointment. I’d have to deal with the rattling when I returned. I only hoped my husband Samuel wouldn’t get home first. What would he think if he saw them moving? He would probably pick them up, study them, open them, maybe even empty them before I could figure out what to do. How would I explain them? Until then he’d always thought they were filled with sand from beaches I had visited. I couldn’t tell him they contained people who had caused me uncontrollable frustration. Every time someone was jarred, I felt a complete loss of control for letting myself get so angry. I would have to worry about it later. I hurried to the car in order to get to my

appointment on time. At the doctor’s office, I picked up a magazine in the waiting room. A couple walked in, bickering about a parking spot. The woman walked through the door, with her right hand resting on her pregnant belly. She spoke softly. “My legs ache and I’m out of breath. I just thought we could park closer is all.” “Why? You can’t use your legs no more? Hey, you can walk. See? Just like that.” The man gave her a gentle push into the waiting room. The woman sat in front of me and groaned. She crossed her legs at the ankles, then uncrossed them. “Why are you so difficult anyways?” Her partner sat next to her. “Why did I even have to come here today? Can’t you do anything on your own?” The man mumbled, but I was close enough to hear their conversation. “I just thought you might like to see the ultrasound, hear the heartbeat. Those things are nice.” “Like I need to hear the kid before he’ll be screaming and crying in my face all night.” “I could have taken a taxi,” the woman said, squirming in her seat again. “Oh yeah, with what money? You don’t even want me to smoke no more to save money.” “It’s not good for the baby,” the mother stressed. Her chair squeaked as she twisted in her seat. “Neither is the booze, yeah?” “I don’t do that anymore. I save money, too.” “Yeah, so you can buy fancy clothes for the baby and Jeremy?” I gripped the armrests of my chair and bit my lip. I remembered her. Jeremy’s mother. I thought of him then. He always came to school in old sweat pants with holes in them. He wore his winter boots indoors because he couldn’t afford new shoes. The pregnant mother sat with her elbows on her thighs, her head in her hands. I almost spoke up to let her know I was there, to tell her I had her back, that her partner shouldn’t talk to her like that, but

my courage was replaced with confusion. How could she be in front of me when I was sure she was in a jar on my shelf at home? I was relieved to hear the doctor call my name. The doctor weighed me and entered the information into her computer. There was a knock at the door, and I pulled at the hospital gown to cover up. A young doctor entered and spoke with my physician. With the door open, I could hear the mother’s voice yelling form the waiting room, “Come on, come on, just quit it. If you don’t want to be here -” The young doctor left and closed the door. Soon after, I heard glass breaking in the waiting room. When I left the doctor’s office, I walked out into the waiting room expecting to hear the couple arguing some more. Instead, I saw the mother, still looking defeated. At her feet was a shattered jar and a mound of sand. Amazed, I sat next to her. “What happened?” I asked. “He was going to hit me again. I hit him first. I told him he could leave for good and it would be fine with me. My baby will be better off not knowing him. So he’s gone.” “What about this?” I stuck the toe of my shoe in the dust, making an awful scraping as I scattered it around on the ground. “The sand? Oh, that’s me. I used to be bottled up, quiet, but I’ve had enough. I was sealing it all up, you know, so that I wouldn’t explode, as if I could hold it all in, but I can’t. No one can. Sometimes, you have to get out, and let go, you know?” The mother kept her eyes downcast. I didn’t understand. For me, the sand was always the other person, never myself. “What part of you is in the sand?” I asked her. “My pain. The humiliation, I’ve been keeping it and hiding it for too long. It was time to let it out. I thought I could do something with it, but no. Who needs it? Sweep it away and let it go. I have other things to worry about.” She pat her round belly and looked up at me, “We all do. Hey, I know you. You teach Jeremy.” She kicked the sand around, until the grains spread out, barely noticeable.

When I got home, I went straight to the shelf. The mother’s jar was on the f loor, shattered. Sand spread out in a dry splatter of fine spears across the f loor. I cleaned up the mess. I filled the empty case with jars containing rocks, sand, dust, shame and guilt. I finally understood. All this time I thought I was trapping people. Then I remembered. The chemistry teacher never disappeared. I changed class. I hated giving up and felt useless in class. The boy in the alley, he never spoke to me again, but I looked at him from a distance, still liking him, and hating myself for it. Jeremy’s mother never came for another interview, but I remember him grumbling something about how his mom was pregnant again. I felt guilt that I couldn’t help him improve his marks. I bottled up everything I hated about myself and put it on a shelf so it could be contained, but so I could also remember everything I didn’t want to be. I waited for Samuel to come home and we walked to the lake with the jars. When my husband saw that I was out of breath, he offered to carry them. I insisted on carrying them myself. At the lake, I opened each jar and emptied its contents onto the beach, telling Samuel about each secret. The sand f loated in small clouds, sailing with the wind and falling to the ground, each grain lost, unrecognizable among the infinity of the beach. I heard my voice echo across the water as the mother’s words echoed in me, “That’s my pain.” Samuel just nodded and let me continue. “I’ve been keeping it for too long. I’m sharing it with you now so I can let it go.” Samuel held me around my waist and smoothed my shirt over my round stomach. “I’m glad you told me. I want you to be a happy mom. But this pain, why did you trap it?” “Because, I didn’t know where it belonged, so I held onto it. When I looked at the jars I felt what I had done wrong each time, desperate never to let those things happen again. When I get anxious, I hold onto to all the negativity I’ve ever felt, and I feel it all at once. I’m always aware of the bad things that

could happen because of all the things that have already happened. It made sense, but it doesn’t anymore. I don’t know that I’ll be able to let go of these forever but emptying them here is a start. “The box will be lighter on the way back home,” Samuel pointed out. I nodded. When we arrived home, Samuel washed the empty jars while I cut peaches to make jam.�