MONTRÉAL WRITES / ISSUE 2.8 by Montréal Writes

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Kristen Laguia

FICTION EDITOR Constantina Gicopoulos NON-FICTION EDITOR

Emily Arnelien POETRY EDITOR

Michael Jaeggle COPY-EDITORS

Rebecca Aikman GRAPHIC ARTIST

Andres Garzon

MONTRÉAL WRITES

Montréal, Québec, Canada

Inquiries: mtlwrites@gmail.com Submissions: submit@montrealwrites.com www.montrealwrites.com

VOL. 2, ISSUE 8

â&#x20AC;¢ AUGUST 2019

First Things 2 Masthead 4 Contributors

Fiction 16

T H E M O U N T A I N by Allison Hall

T H E I N N O C E N T S by Caroline Misner

Flash Fiction 11

M E E T I N G M O R R I S by Laura Wang Arseneau

Poetry 20

T H E T O W N T H A T W E E P S O F W I N T E R by Mercedes Bacon-Traplin

S H I N E R S by Sacha Bissonnette

P O E M S by Daniel Galef

A C A S T L E by Ayman Morkos

S N O W I N A P R I L by Tiah Snaith

CONTRIBUTORS MERCEDES B A C O N -T R A P L I N (Poem, p.20), is a young student from the small town of Whitehorse, Yukon. She has been writing for more than half of her life and considers poetry her calling. She is an active member of the LGBTQ+ community and believes it to be an important inspiration for her writing. She is passionate about broadening her horizons and incorporating her experiences into her writing.

Ontario where she continues to draw inspiration for her work. She is the author of the Young Adult fantasy series “The Daughters of Eldox.” Her latest novel, “The Spoon Asylum” was released in May of 2018 by Thistledown Press and has been nominated for the Governor General Award.

A Y M A N M O R K O S (Poem, p.13) was born in Egypt, in 1977, and has lived in Montreal since 2014. He attended McGill University, School of S A C H A B I S S O N N E T T E (Poem, p.10) is Continuing Studies in Montreal. a poet and short story writer from Ottawa, Ca. He was born and raised in Ottawa to a Trinidadian T I A H S N A I T H (Poem, p.22) is a high school mother and a French-Canadian father. He received writer from the small town of Macgregor, Manitoba. an honorable mention for his poem ‘Acheron’ She was a competitive swimmer and played for her in Carleton University’s poetry competition and high school’s basketball team before she had to take recently published poems ‘Rigorous’ out of New a yearlong recovery period due to an injury and the Orleans. He is also assisting as a dramaturge on two surgery that followed it. Tiah used poetry and art as a creative outlet during the difficult time she was local plays. having. D A N I E L G A L E F ' s (Poems, p.14) poetry has been published in Measure, the Potcake Chapbooks, L A U R A W A N G A R S E N E A U ' s (Poem, and the Scrivener Creative Review. He graduated in p.11) short fiction has been published in Canadian 2018 from McGill University, where he was editor- literary magazines such as The Antigonish Review, in-chief of the Plumber's Faucet humor magazine and Fiddlehead, The Windsor Review, Hammer’d Out, and won the 2016 McGill Drama Festival for his musical JoyPuke. She has been an arts writer and curator, now based in the Niagara region of Ontario. play The Stars. A L L I S O N H A L L (The Mountain, p.16) is a teacher-librarian and writer from Ontario. Her short stories have been published in Cleaver Magazine and The Mulberry Fork Review. C A R O L I N E M I S N E R ' s (The Innocents, p.6) work has appeared in numerous publications in the USA, Canada, India and the UK. She has been nominated for the prestigious McClelland & Stewart Journey Anthology Prize for the short story “Strange Fruit.” In 2011 another short story and a poem were nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She lives in the beautiful Haliburton Highlands of Northern

F I C T I O N by Caroline Misner

THE INNOCENTS

ed placed his face in his hands and closed his eyes. He needed a moment to think. Perhaps two. Perhaps more. The day had been a disaster from the beginning. Sylvia had awakened that morning to the howl of Nicholas in his cot and she had been in a foul temper ever since. Usually a good mother, despite her wild mood swings that rocked the household from time to time, today she had no patience for the baby or his sister Frieda and least of all for Ted. He’d become accustomed to her behaviour. Sometimes, all it took was an innocent remark or a gesture that made her feel slighted to send her into a fury. They had already planned on a day’s outing, somewhere they had never been before, a day’s exploration, preferably to the beach. It was a glorious warm day in late May 1962, perfect for a picnic somewhere beyond the farms of Devon. But Ted had balked at continuing on with their plans so Sylvia had taken matters into her own hands and tossed both babies into the back of the car and revved the engine. Fearing she would do something crazy; Ted had no choice but to accompany them. He let Sylvia drive. For hours they drove, Sylvia clutching the wheel, her blazing hazel eyes darting across the countryside, heading west and seeking a route to the coast. Ted sat with the map unfolded in his lap and tried to navigate. The roads meandered through hills and farmland, never quite reaching the sea and that had enraged Sylvia even more. He managed to talk her into stopping at a small village to purchase food for the children—a humble meal of biscuits, bread and marmalade and a few bottles of milk

and apple juice. The respite from the drive seemed to mollify Sylvia’s frustration, albeit only temporarily. Back in the car, she raged and pounded her fists into the wheel. “Why do you Brits always keep the roads so far from the shore?” she shouted. “Back in the states you can get to the beach in no time.” The tone of her voice had set Nicholas to howling again and even little Frieda had tears in her eyes. Ted had tried to calm them as best he could. Sylvia ignored them. They finally arrived at the base of a jagged coastal cliff hedged in by oak woods and brambles. The shore still seemed a long way off, accessible only by a single path that wound between crops of scraggly brush. Sylvia cut the engine and sprung from the car, slamming the door behind her. Ted followed, hauling babies and grocery bags. He found a small clearing between the beach and the woods and spread a threadbare blanket across the rocky sand. The tides sparkled brilliantly in the sun, low waves crashing and creaming against Sylvia’s shins. She stood with her back to them, staring out to sea, the hem of her skirt drawn up between her legs and tucked into her waistband. A lone scruffy hound worked its legs up to a gallop as it crossed the beach to chase the gulls that rose, squawking, in the tepid breeze. Ted fed the children and they ate heartily but soon lost interest. Not yet able to stand, Nicholas crawled after his mother, his small hands and knees leaving criss-cross trails in the sand. Frieda padded after them, her milk and biscuits forgotten on the cloth. Ted sat with his head in his hands and wondered what to do next. 7

It was no use trying to talk sense into Sylvia when she got like this. She was the most brilliant and yet the most stubborn woman he’d ever met. The best he could do was watch the children and wait for Sylvia’s mood to pass. Sometimes, these tantrums lasted for days and the only way to calm her was with the little white pills he kept locked away and doled out as needed. He regretted not bringing the pills with them today. He lifted his head and saw Sylvia trudging up the beach; Nicholas was perched upon one hip and Frieda’s hand clutched her mother’s. The beach was not what she had expected and the disappointment would likely set her off again. “I want to go for a hike,” Sylvia said as she plopped the babies onto the blanket. “Don’t you like the sea?” Ted asked. Sylvia scanned the undulating water, the pebbled shoreline, the cracked furrowed rocks that lay scattered like uncollected ruins in the nooks and crooks of the inlet. The gulls screamed overhead, safe now from the dog that had abandoned his chase and scampered off to other adventures. “I hate it,” Sylvia said. “This is not an ocean. Not like the ones back home –too f lat, too pale. Where are the big waves, the colourful umbrellas, the lifeguard chairs?” She headed off into the woods without another word. Ted scooped the children up in his arms and followed. There was no trail to guide them; twigs and acorns cracked underfoot as they made their way deeper and deeper into the woods, Sylvia sweeping branches out of the way with her arms. The roar of the sea faded and a mossy coolness enveloped them, a welcome respite from the heat on the shore. “Look.” Sylvia paused and pointed into a mound of brush. A rabbit trap sat nestled beneath the leaves, its sharky jaws yawning open and its teeth gleaming uncorroded; a copper chain snaked round a tasty French bean morsel on the bait plate. It was all too familiar to Ted, having been raised among the farms of the Calder Valley in Yorkshire. As a youth he’d prided himself in being quite the huntsman

and had set many similar traps himself. His prey had filled many a Sunday stew pot. Silent rage-filled Sylvia until she seemed to burgeon—Alice in Wonderland after sampling the bottle. Dull light ref lected the mania in her eyes. Without a word, she grabbed the trap and hurled it into the trees, a brown cord whipping behind it like a tail. The trap snapped shut on impact with the ground and the French bean sprung from it and landed in the brush. Ted stood aghast at what she had done. It was a desecration, an affront to everything he held and believed in, knowing some poor farmer had probably set the trap in anticipation of his evening meal. But Sylvia wasn’t finished yet. She spotted another trap and another, each tethered together with the same frayed cord as the first. She threw the traps, one by one, into the woods, her face reddening from the exertion and her fury. “Sylvia!” he gasped. “Stop that! What are you doing?” “Murderers!” she screamed, tears glazing her ruddy cheeks. “You’re all murderers! You’re killing the innocents!” Ted let the babies slide from his arms where they huddled terrified round his knees. Sylvia was beyond reason. All he could do was let her fury wind itself down. She sobbed, bunching her fists against her eyes once the last trap had been thrown. “Murderers!” she wailed. “Cannibals! All of them.” “It’s the way of the land, Sylvia.” Ted tried to sound reassuring but he knew he failed. “Most people in this county can’t afford fresh meat every day. The traps are a necessity.” His instinct told him he should reset the traps. Perhaps the farmer who had set them would never suspect. Sylvia raked her fingers down the length of her face; thankfully her nails left no marks. She raised her bloodshot eyes as though beseeching some unseen deity. “Why is it always the innocents who have to die?” she whimpered. Ted had no answer to that. Sylvia heaved in a deep breath; her shoulders loosened and her shaking ebbed. The storm was blowing

itself out. It would pass soon. But for how long? How long before Sylvia’s grief would overtake her again? “Oh, Sylvia,” he whispered. Sylvia stepped into his arms and he held his wife close, the warmth of her body as familiar to him as his own skin. Below them, Nicholas and Frieda clutched their parents’ legs as though trying to climb up the trunk of a tree. And there they stood, in the cool woods beside the sea in Cornwall, a young family, clinging to one another. Ted detected a stir in the brush; leaves rattled. A young brown rabbit scampered through. It paused and regarded them warily. Its whiskers twitched and it scurried on, leaping over the inert snake of the trap’s cord.�

P O E T R Y by Sacha Bissonnette

SHINERS

Kinder peeks around tablecloth galaxy gazing revels at the mechanics of a Lazy Susan coming of age â&#x20AC;&#x153;the world is so big,â&#x20AC;? he whispers his travelling tooth eagerly waiting to be spit shined bundled up and pillow talked a strap of his book bag snaps weighed down by corner scorpions rum rangers chipping dominos the other remains strong swings across his shoulder swings like Sunday palms his hands are hers inked curry yellow mango nectar rich stuck to handwritten recipes and first lessons he sits alone now eats good one gold silver tooth smiles at the crooked horizon

F L A S H F I C T I O N by Laura Wang Arseneau

MEETING MORRIS

rom the bakery, I walk down Bagot St toward the smell of the lake. I bought one bagel to share. It is still warm in the paper bag. I asked for butter so it seeps, grease staining brown paper dark. You will not mind. I walk my bike right at corner BANG! It hits a post of steel, bolted down to concrete. I upright the bike and carry on. Across the way rattle wheels of a walker, a moving cage for a Mister; a shuff ling old man, moving slow, head down. Passing by black iron fences the front yard of a mansion. Maple tree denuded of maple keys. Leaves yellow veined, and fresh blood red, scuttle over and around an overturned urn, empty on the walkway. All the pretty f lowers gone. Bark. Gateway opening, closing. Childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice. A red wagon being wheeled over chalked, hopscotch squares, numbers smudged. Followed by yellow dress, hop skip cartwheeling limbs and a red ribboned ponytail lassoing. Hey, I too have a red ribbon on wheel, f lap f lap f lap with each turn of my front bicycle tire. I do not want to be late to meet you. So I hop on and pump pedals. Gain speed, taxi runway, take f light. Too soon I reach the boardwalk and get off and wheel my bike along. It is heavy going, so off! it goes. BANG! Wheels spinning Ferris wheel.

Now I am set free to go to our BEACH. No Morris. I am early. I am late. You are early. You are late. I will wait for you just a little while longer. The planks beneath my soles are silvery, stripped down and smooth. I kick one shoe, then the other off foot FALL. My bare feet move one step, two steps on wind bleached boardwalk. Step onto smooth stone. Bend and pick stone, pocket. Toward waves. Break, foam, roll, repeat. Break, foam, roll. Plank gives over to sandy grit. I button my sweater against wind. Tear a milkweed pod and pocket. Snatch a gull's feather, caught in shrub and pocket. I am early, so LONG I wait for you. You will see me, here won't you? Step off the platform. Heels sink into sand. Toes dig shovelling each step. I am looking for FIVE, six, seven f lat stones arranged in a half circle. Here it is. Eyebrow to eye of burnt out fire. I sift through charred driftwood, choose the nicest one that fits snug in the palm of my hand. Fingers enclose. Smudge char black markings onto my fingers. Char KOHL lines on my face. I will do my makeup just how you like it Morris. Eyes rimmed in kohl. You used to say, I like it when you put makeup

ON again off again; here there; there there, there there, don’t worry. Morris, you told me I look like Mata Hari. Dance for me? I pocket a charred stump and move with the wind. Feet spin, slip, twist too the music on the wind. I am your muse, your model, your lover, how oft. TEN, nine, eight you remember? We promised to meet here. It is getting colder. I will leave a note. But with what? In pocket, why this charred stump will do. Sharp end of a blackened wood writing tool. Big letters on silver wood. MORRIS I WAS HERE. I write a message for you to see HOW I kept our promise? Where were you? Where are you now? Oh! It is getting darker. Sun’s weak eye through clouded lids. Time to turn back come back tomorrow is another day TIME, night-time. Wind at my back. Hand in pocket. Here is stone. Drop. Here is feather, buoyed up in wind, f ly away little birdie. Bye bye. Here is milkpod with white soft inside like dog fur, opened and picked clean. Run like the wind little doggy. Last one In pocket charred driftwood stump in fist. Palm and fingers black. I keep this for you, Morris. You, artist man. You, who gestured charcoal on my body. Do you know WHY, look here. Someone left a bicycle, lying on the boardwalk, wheels spinning with red ribbon f lapping. Beside it lies two halves of a bagel and a torn paper bag stained black.�

P O E T R Y by Ayman Morkos

A CASTLE

You are a soft delicate air on my cheeks You are a fast running wave of ages Your voice is a nightingale song on hearts My heart is a castle for you Armed with the strongest feelings A cannon is firing words of love Soldiers are dying of your love A conflict between my verses Veins are my servants Blood is a precious water to drink Living in your castle Is my dream

P O E T R Y by Daniel Galef

SOLILOQUY FOR AN IMAGINED TRAGEDY

Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re cast on a lightless, heartless world like dice thrown by a subtle god. Where once we land: a gaping gulph, by ruby river spanned, too swift to ford, too deep ever to ice. This crystal rill like boundless fire flows between a world of forms and one of forces, a hidden cave the crack from which it courses, the sea to which it drains, no pilgrim knows. Once waded, it can never again be crossed. No memory survives it; from out a borne of placeless, timeless void, we meet the morn with unseen eyes. The past, like dew, is lost. Return, and stand at banks of fire gazing: innumerable fire, the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heart blazing.

P O E T R Y by Daniel Galef

THE GHOST OF ANTIGONISH, NOVA SCOTIA TO WILLIAM MEARNS (spoken by the subject of the poem “The Little Man Who Wasn’t There”) 1899

Why think you that I linger on the stair Advancing on it neither up nor down? I’m hardly powerless; a hearty scare Has given me (and this house) wide renown. And yet I still stand stock-still on the stair (I easily could upgrade, haunt some manse With all my fame accrued) and chill the air, Motionless on my inclined expanse. Forevermore I’ll wait upon this stair For you get my state through your thick head: To ascend (or descend—whichever fate is fair) Is not the lot of all the restless dead. “Why are you here? And how?” I wish you’d say, Instead of “How I wish you’d go away!”

F I C T I O N by Allison Hall

THE MOUNTAIN “Why is everything so fucking dark lately? What happened to happily ever after?” Alice asked. The glow of the f lame lit up her face as the tobacco hissed and caught. The smoke crept from the side of her mouth in a wavy line. “What do you mean? Are you telling me you’re not happy?” Jay reached for her hand, stroking the long fingers that ended abruptly in chipped black polish. “No, it isn’t that. Why does everything have to be so apocalyptic? Zombies, nuclear fallout, the end of the world. Sometimes I feel as though there isn’t anything positive left.” She looked around at the people on the patio, their animated chatter filled the air with an emptiness that made her skin crawl. Her gaze fell upon Jay and she caught the f lush that played across his cheeks and down his neck towards his button up shirt that was crisp, without a wrinkle. “Oh, I see, you’re talking about popular culture: movies, books, that sort of thing. Well…what about the movie we saw last week? Everyone seemed happy at the end of that one.” “Rom-coms,” Alice snorted with a billow of smoke coming out of her nose, “Those aren’t real. Nothing ever works out like that.” She f licked the remains of her cigarette over the edge of the patio at a somber man in an uncomfortable suit on his way home from the office. “And zombies are?” “I guess you have me there.” Alice took a sip of beer and drummed her fingers on the edge of the table. “I grew up with all those fairy tales, you know? I was set up for things working out. It’s like when you’re a kid, your parents tell you that everything will be fine

in the end, and then they throw you out into the real world and it’s just the opposite.” She reached for the cigarette pack and Jay pulled it away from her. “You’re smoking too much lately. I think you should quit.” “Really?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Sure, I can quit. No problem.” She drew her hands back and twisted the thin paper napkin into a spiral. “Your life’s not that bad, is it?” Jay signaled for the waitress to bring over another round. “I mean look at you, you’re beautiful. You have a great place, a steady job…that ring on your finger. How could that be bad?” “Those are material things. I’m not sure you can use material things to define happiness. It doesn’t work that way.” “Of course, you can. Don’t you see? Those material things mean so much more. Your beauty comes from confidence. Your apartment…that represents safety and comfort. Your workplace is your security. And the ring…that represents love, the rest of our lives together.” “No. I guess it’s not that bad.” She placed her hand on the fork and f lipped it back and forth. “And you? Are you happy?” “Of course I am.” He leaned back into his chair. “How could I not be?” “But you’re in med school. I don’t think I could be happy if I was a doctor.” “I’ll help people. I’ll improve their lives. That makes me happy. Simple. Not to mention, all the money that I’ll make, for us.” He nodded at the waitress as she put two more bottles down on the table. “But will you really help them?” Alice bit her lip in a way that made her face change. “You’ll lie to them, tell them that everything’s

going to be okay. Fix them up for a year or two, before they die anyway.” He smothered a laugh. “Before they die anyway? That’s pretty cynical. What’s gotten into you?” “Sometimes I wonder what the point is – why we even bother.” “Are you talking about the secret to life? Why we exist?” “Maybe. Oh, I don’t know.” She raised the bottle to her lips and emptied half of it: the liquid fell forward in quiet gulps. “We have drinks. We talk. We go home. I get up for work, you go to school and then we do it all over again. Is that really living? Shouldn’t there be something more?” “What do you suggest?” “A purpose. Something to strive towards.” “What about the wedding –isn’t that a purpose? Something to look forward to?” “I suppose. But what then? What’s the purpose after that?” Alice pulled at the diamond around her finger, staring at the ref lection of light it threw onto the green glass of the bottle. The sun, far off in the distance, fell in an angry red mess over the skyline. “To live happily ever after,” Jay said triumphantly. He raised his drink in an exaggerated toast. “Very funny,” she said. Her mouth curved into a reluctant smile. “Do you really think we can be happy?” “Of course. We are happy. It’s not that difficult.” “But I think it is. Marriage is hard, you have to work at it. What if I sleep with someone else? Will you still be happy then?” Jay’s eyebrows lifted. “That depends. On the situation I mean. Maybe you got really drunk and didn’t know what you were doing. I think I could probably forgive that. Yes, I think I could.” “But if I told you I’ve slept with someone else; wouldn’t that make you furious? I wouldn’t be able to forgive you if you did something like that.” “Even if it was a mistake? If I didn’t know what I was doing? I think if you loved me enough, you could forgive me. When you’re

serious about being together, you work things out.” Alice looked at him and then looked away. She thought about the text. She wished she had never seen it, but now it was too late. The light all around them was fading into dusk. The waitress placed a f lickering candle in the middle of the table. “Are you ready to order?” She stood there expectantly. “No, I think I’m okay for now,” Alice said. Her nails tapped against the bottle. “Well I’m starving,” Jay announced. He squinted as he tipped the glossy menu towards the dull ref lection of the candle. “I’ll have the sirloin, rare, and fries…no, skip the fries. I’ll have a salad, ranch dressing on the side. I’m watching my waistline.” He winked at the waitress who smiled as he handed her the menu. “Watching your waistline? You sound like a 1950’s sitcom dad.” Alice’s hand crept towards the pack of cigarettes he had pushed to the edge of the table. “Withdrawal already?” “I’m fine.” Her fingers gripped the chair as she rocked back and forth. “What am I supposed to do now? Watch you eat dinner?” “You’re the one that wanted to go out. Why don’t you get another drink or something?” “Sure.” Alice stood up and walked over to the bar at the edge of the patio covered with little lights that looked like chili peppers. She squeezed in between two men on stools and put her hands down f lat against the rough wood of the bar top. “Can I get you a drink?” the man on her left asked. She noticed that his patterned tie was slightly askew. “I’m getting my own drink,” she said. “That’s why I came up to the bar.” “She’s married anyway,” the other man said, eyeing her ring, “or as good as anyway.” “Since when does that matter?” Alice stared at him until he finally looked away. “I’ll have four shots of tequila,” she told the bartender, who poured them out and put them on a little silver tray. The men watched as she walked back over to the table, carefully balancing the drinks. “I hope two of those are for me,” Jay said.

Alice looked at him and threw her head back, draining the shots one by one down her tilted throat. “Lemon?” he asked. His forehead lifted and made a dividing line. “Thanks,” she said. Her eyes watered as she sucked on the pale-yellow wedge. The waitress put the steak down and turned to Alice. “Can I get you an extra plate?” “No, thanks. I’m vegetarian.” “Since when?” Jay asked, chewing on a mouthful of pink meat. “I thought I’d give it a try,” she said, as the waitress considered them and walked away. The tables were starting to thin now and the mosquitoes were out. Alice slapped at her arm and reached into her bag to pull on a sweater. Jay’s face danced in the shadow of the f lame. “Really? This is a bit much, even for you.” She looked down at the table and contemplated the empty shot glasses. “You wouldn’t understand.” “Try me.” “It’s just that every morning when I open the front door, I see the mountain.” Alice shivered and pulled the sweater tighter around her shoulders. “The mountain?” “Yes, you know, the mountain. The one across from my apartment.” “I’d call it more of a hill.” “I look at it and it’s always the same…I mean it’s not always exactly the same. In the winter it’s covered in snow, in the summer it’s got patches of green, but when it comes down to it, it’s just a big piece of rock looking back at me every morning and it never changes. It’s always there. And sure, it’s nice to know what to expect, but sometimes when I open the door, I pray that it won’t be there anymore. I think about what I would do if it wasn’t there one day.” “Are you calling me a piece of rock?”

need to climb the mountain. It’s a symbol of overcoming your obstacles.” She glared at him under thick bangs. “If I climb it, I have to connect, become a part of it, and right now I want nothing to do with it. Can’t you even try to imagine what that’s like for me?” “What that’s like for you? Huh.” Jay closed his eyes and she watched his shoulders lift up and down in time to his breath. She could almost hear him count to ten before his eyes opened again, black and empty. “Do you know what? I think I’m done,” he said. He pushed his plate into the middle of the table. “I thought you were starving.” “Not anymore.” He stood up and threw a couple of twenties down on the table. Alice thought about the mountain again and pulled a cigarette out of the almost empty pack. The f lame from the candle caught her eye, causing the white part to glow a dull shade of orange. “I told you there’s no happily ever after,” she muttered to no one in particular as she watched his silhouette lurch off into the night. She smiled. Maybe tomorrow the view would be different.�

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.” “No, I understand perfectly. I think you

P O E T R Y by Mercedes Bacon-Traplin

T H E TO W N T H AT WEEPS OF WINTER

In a silent town that weeps of winter I sit and drink tea that burns my throat I reminisce on the life Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been given And remember the nicotine scented January air Or the burn of the smoke from a passed joint Or the touch of lips against mine And tears stinging the corner of my eyes My life is made up of fragmented January In a town that weeps of winter Cold that creeps into your bones And ages a young face Sometimes I feel beyond my years As I drink my tea through burning tears Or watch another January pass In the town that weeps of winter This town that whispers of stories untold And freezes alongside its icy river Sometimes I feel I live in those waters Somewhere deep and dark where light doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist And Ice grows around me as I make my nest Alongside the gold that this town was built on

This town where summer comes only once in awhile And my memories are cemented in the snow Where my wardrobe is made of sweaters And I cocoon myself in burning showers Yet nothing seems to keep out the cold So I sit by the window and watch the snow In the town that weeps of winter I remember my freezing fingers clasping a bottle of a liquid that warmed my chest And passing it to the next I remember kissing her outside the theatre Our breath visible in the winter air I remember laying in the snow and crying Melting away with my tears And this winter town wept with me With its winter tears As I stare at the bottom of my empty mug And contemplate getting another I watch the sun set in the early afternoon As the cold fuelled fog creeps in on the banks And the low hanging air threatens to suffocate I watch another January pass oh so slowly In the town that weeps of winter

P O E T R Y by Tiah Snaith

SNOW IN APRIL

When it snowed in April Did you stand at the window and cry? Uncontrollably cry the way no adult should? Did your voice wobble and shake? Were your eyes too sore to see? The snow on the struggling green grass Was unambiguously obvious, A perfectly picturesque way To portray how it felt To be left alone in a house too big for one. Snow in April Things that are, that shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be. So did you pick up the phone? Swallow your doubts and call into the expanding distance What do you fear moreâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; The echo or the answer? Or did you not pick up the phone at all Maybe you know the landline Could never hold all you have to say. So did you rest your heavy head against the window? Try to not think of your shipwrecked heart Floating among the wild waves swirling in your chest That make it hard to breathe. Did you just sit, in your own endless silence? And with glassy eyes, Watch it snow in April?