To see your work published on Montréal Writes, send your submissions to submit@montrealwrites.com FOUNDER / EDITOR
Kristen Laguia
MANAGING EDITOR
Sara Hashemi
FICTION EDITOR
Angelina Mazza NON-FICTION EDITOR
Emily Arnelien POETRY EDITOR
Michael Jaeggle COPY-EDITORS
Rebecca Aikman Constantina Gicopoulos GRAPHIC ARTIST
Andres Garzon
2
MONTRÉAL WRITES
Montréal, Québec, Canada
Inquiries: mtlwrites@gmail.com Submissions: submit@montrealwrites.com www.montrealwrites.com Copyright © 2019 by Montréal Writes.
VOL. 2, ISSUE 5
First Things 2 Masthead 4 Contributors
Flash Fiction 10
T H E W I S H by Simone Garneau
Poetry 8
t h e m by Andres Dillon
9
M A L A G A M O O N by John Drudge
6
P O E M S by Taylor Gray Moore
11
P L A C E H O P P I N G by Carolyne Van Der Meer
• MAY 2019
CONTRIBUTORS A N D R E S D I L L O N (Poem p.8), born and raised in the northeastern mountains of Mexico, is a passionate architecture student that finds through poetry a way of liberating himself from the constant strains of life. He is also co-founder of the regional literary magazine Cuatro Versos, publishing young and emerging writers.
Press, 2014) and Journeywoman (Inanna, 2017). A third book, a collection of poetry called Sensorial, is forthcoming from Inanna in 2021. Her poetry and prose have been published internationally.
J O H N D R U D G E (Poem, p.9) is from Toronto, Canada. He is a social worker working in the field of disability management and hold degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He has written poetry off and on for most of my life, starting around age 10, and although he has always enjoyed the process, he has just recently begun to submit poetry this past year and has a book entitled, “March” coming out this month with a publisher. S I M O N E G A R N E A U (The Wish, p.10), ten years ago, finally stopped procrastinating and started writing fiction. Most often, her ideas come to her as she drifts off to sleep. In 2010, she was short-listed in the Quebec Writing Competition and her story was published in an anthology by Véhicule Press. She was also a long-list finalist in the 2010 CBC Literary Awards Short Story Competition. Simone lives in Montreal and is working on a novel. T A Y L O R G R A Y M O O R E (Poems, p.6) was born in Vancouver, BC, in 1992 and has lived there for most of his life. He attended McGill University in Montreal, where he obtained a B.A. in English Literature. His work has previously appeared in The Lark, Pulp Magazine and the Spadina Literary Review. C A R O L Y N E V A N D E R M E E R (Place Hopping, p.11) lives and writes in Montreal, Canada. She has two published books, Motherlode: A Mosaic of Dutch Wartime Experience (Wilfrid Laurier University 5
P O E T R Y by Taylor Gray Moore
THE DEBUT OF MONTREAL'S NEW 'AZUR' METRO TRAINS, 7 FEBRUARY 2016 The train approaches the platform, all the people clap. A stooped old woman in a patchwork shawl tells le maire how it happened that hallowed day back in ‘67 when all the grass turned green. She was young then; she wore a little red skirt, carried a little white bag and spoke fluently out both sides of her mouth. All of us still remember, or at least remember remembering, the joie de vivre with which she embarked that hallowed day. Doors finally open, all the people clamber inside to take their places. Chantieres—some young, some old, others completely ageless— occupy the front seats playing guitars, harmoniums, fiddles, sing of golden days both future and past while Richler and Groulx make sweet love in the back. Oh look! Oh look! Someone’s taken a hand! Oh look! All the Montrealers & Montréalais have taken hands and begun to dance!
6
All the people, at long last hand in hand, promenade down the aisle, train passing smoothly under their tortured dreams and l'Autoroute du Souvenir. They’re beautiful in the shining light of every shining station passed, in the dark between they're all remade half and whole.
P O E T R Y by Taylor Gray Moore
THE OLD BIKE IS GONE for Matt BT Last night we took the old bike, that one we never used, out of the closet and led it out to the alley behind our building— abandoned it there, placed it outside our lives. It’s still sitting there, will always be there. It’s going to be designated a public art installation by l'arrondissement du Plateau-Mont Royal and will remain in place for generations. It will come to symbolize this place, this time, somebody will link it to Leonard Cohen and his final years. They will say that it was the bicycle he rode home on the last day of his life, carrying groceries in the basket. They will debate what produce he bought; how many eggs, how much milk. Everyone will forget that he died in Los Angeles— they will instead repeat the story enough to make it true for legions of young dreamers making pilgrimages from across the Earth. Later still, it will be held up as an example of the life and beliefs of us inhabitants of 21st century Montreal by people who will not know what a bicycle is. It will be declared either a hood ornament, a trellis or a religious icon. They will see the faces of holy men and women in the chains of our bicycle, and there anoint them. But for now all we have is more room in the closet. We'll move furniture and clothes into this vacated space. We are freer now, cleaner, a great weight has been cast off. Perhaps we can fly now, emerge out of time, pull something immortal from this cold, empty here.
7
P O E T R Y by Andres Dillon
them to them my face is nothing but another face hanging. to them my body (arms legs eyes) a forgotten shadow– shifting in the water. to them my words are only sounds amid distorted winds that blow lost lines of letters and nonsense sentences. to them I am what they to me are another face another body another sound another. tonight, I drink alone.
8
P O E T R Y by John Drudge
MALAGA MOON
The warm ocean breeze Docks its thoughts High up On the white sand beach Up to the patio Of the bodega bar With the windows wide open And the stars near Where men from the mountains And drifters From the shore Mingle in a multitude Of loud moods Alleviating The day’s unrest With cheap cold beer And oysters on the half Under the watchful eye Of a boastful moon On a deeply inked Malaga night
9
F L A S H F I C T I O N by Simone Garneau
THE WISH
H
ot wet tears run down my cheeks and under my collar. I sit at the foot of the bed and rub my mother’s knobby feet under the quilted blanket. I don’t want them to get cold. My brother Carl stands at the side of the bed, his hands resting on the part of the blanket covering Dad’s legs. This blanket lay on their bed for sixty-nine years—a wedding present from Mum’s parents. It was the blanket that my brothers and I crawled under on cold weekend mornings when we were young. The one that kept Paul warm when his fever spiked, fifty-eight years ago. The room is not large enough for everyone. The kids—mine and Carl’s—stand in the hallway. Not kids anymore. All grown-up now, some with children of their own. The occasional whisper or shuffling can be heard outside the door, but mostly it is quiet. They take turns coming in to say their goodbyes. Mum and Dad’s hands are clasped together on top of the blanket. This is what they wished for. They knew that when the time came, they wanted to go together. They couldn’t imagine a life apart. They met in the summer of 1949 when Mum worked at Ron’s Ice Cream Parlour on Water Street. Dad always said it was love at first sight. For the icecream sundae, that is. "Your mother was the cherry on top.” After the children have all been in, and there is nothing more to do but go, I reach out and touch Carl’s arm. He can’t look at me. “It’s time,” I say. I smooth the blanket over Mum's feet one last time, and then I stand up. When the caretakers from the funeral home come in to take our parents away, they can barely tear Mum and Dad's hands apart.
10
P O E T R Y by Carolyne Van Der Meer
PLACE HOPPING The Organ Player, St. Joseph's Oratory Lucinda is in love Every Sunday she goes to the free afternoon concert to see his oversized image on the big screen in the basilica She sits in the pew her eyes locked on the alternating images his hands, the back of his head his profile, his feet His hair, like a lion’s mane, black unruly the Roman profile, the lips that purse at every crescendo his hands, red and inelegant that become the wands of inexplicable magic as they race across the keys She feels beads of perspiration imagines those fingers on her her body electric with desire And his feet oh his feet as they select the pedals with such certainty the pointed-toed shoes and colourful striped socks the one sign of vanity arresting her Lucinda holds her head in her hands to Bach’s Toccata, adagio & fugue in D minor
11
P O E T R Y by Carolyne Van Der Meer
At Pizza Vesuvio, Champs ÉlysÊes
On this patio we let the wind undo our hair around us Cartier Bulgari Lancel herds of tourist shopping bags a man in a wheelchair one leg amputated war veteran perhaps rolls up to a mother and daughter waves his hands behind the girl as the mother takes a photo for just a moment I have admiration think he is the father think what a strong family to endure such hardship but they look at him stunned as he laughs rolls away we go back to our pizza wind undoing our hair
12
P O E T R Y by Carolyne Van Der Meer
Mutt on the Saguenay River
He barks on the shoreline as they search the beach during low tide. He’s excited by what’s beneath the water. His yelps are drawn-out groans— if only he could see this landscape, these creatures as he swipes his paws against the cool spray. Now he sinks in pewter-coloured clay, wishes for crabs that hide in the half-light.
13