Volume 2 Issue 6 - The Humour Issue by Free Lit Magazine

CONTENTS 4

The Mighty Mulloy KYLE CLIMANS

Rude Words MEG FREER

The Lady of Laughter SAMMI COX

CR In Jail MICHELE SABAD

Sense of Humour ASHLEY NEWTON

Comedians Can Be Our Modern Day Philosophers ADRIANA GREEN

Thank You, Mrs. Morisson KYLE CLIMANS

Wrestling Demons MEG FREER

Ideas On Humour BRUCE KAUFFMAN

Unfunny Things ALYSSA COOPER

Front Cover

BARRY JOHNSON

Back Cover

BARRY JOHNSON

FREE LIT MAGAZINE Editor-in-Chief Ashley Newton aenewton91@gmail.com

Staff Writers

Kyle Climans, Alyssa Cooper, Adriana Green, Bruce Kauffman, Ashley Newton

Contributors

Sammi Cox, Meg Freer, Barry Johnson, Michele Sabad

Colophon Free Lit Magazine is a non-profit literary magazine committed to the accessibility of digital literature for all readers. Our mission is to form an online creative community by encouraging writers, artists, and photographers to practice their passion in a medium that anyone can access and appreciate.

Humour

Imagine you are sitting in your local comedy club. The comedian has been spewing jokes for the last hour and everyone has been clutching their abdomen, split with laughter. Even you can’t help but join in. For a brief moment, you don’t feel alone. Everyone else in the room feels what you do. It’s comforting, isn’t it? Sometimes the best experiences with humour come from dark places. Jokes make light of what is otherwise uncomfortable to admit. It’s the blanket we put on to feel safe; to feel relief and make sense of our struggles, as well as our moments of pride. Sadness comes and goes - much like the guests of the comedy club - and you’ll find that happiness does, too. But, somewhere in between that, humour never really goes away. Tomorrow there will be another comedian, another individual busting your guts whether or not you’ve had a good or bad day. Your sense of humour can come from anywhere, and you can use it to help yourself cope in any way that you like. It’s a blanket that will be waiting for you when you get home. Ashley Newton Editor-in-Chief

Contact freelitmag@gmail.com

Next Issue The Truth or Dare Issue

The Mighty Mulloy KYLE CLIMANS life.

I’ll never know if Millard Mulloy was one of the worst or best influences on my entire

The first day I met Millard, I was a 7-year-old girl, sitting at the front of the moving van on my mother’s lap. At the time, I didn’t realize how offended I should have been by my parents’ wilful decision to risk getting arrested and risk their only child’s life just because they were too cheap to pay for a trunk with three seatbelts. I realized immediately that Millard was not the most sympathetic of people. He was on his front lawn, laughing so hard that he couldn’t run straight. He was chasing after a cat that seemed equally unable to run in a straight line. At the last minute, both the boy and the cat noticed the massive automobile thundering along at a modest thirty kilometres per hour. Millard cried out and leapt out of the way.

The cat wasn’t quite so lucky.

But two heart attacks, a speeding ticket, and endless tears later, we sped to the nearest vet who assured us that the cat would at least keep half its tail. When we finally got to our new house and started to unpack our stuff, Millard sheepishly admitted to me that the reason the cat had been so clumsy was because Millard had trimmed off its whiskers, hoping that they’d grow back even this time. Ever since that day, Millard was my neighbourhood friend. We spent our summer days biking, fighting, playing, and at school we hung out all the time. In hindsight, it’s astonishing how much we shared with each other. He was the person I was hanging out with when I had my first period. Mom ran upstairs from the basement when she heard screaming from my basement. She then almost burst out laughing when she realized that he had been the one who was screaming for help.

Millard was also the reason I discovered an important fact about myself.

When we were twelve, we would play hockey on the driveway against our dads. They liked to indulge us by teaming up as two grown men against two skinny, clumsy kids and putting us at the bottom of the driveway, giving us a literal uphill battle to fight. 4

So one day, after we had once again lost against our doting fathers, Millard went

inside to change. Not that he said so, any more than he said he would be changing in my bedroom. I found out both those things when I went to put my hockey equipment away. I don’t know if it was because it was Millard, or if it would have been the same with any other boy, but seeing, well, that, I made a promise to never have to see one of those things ever again. At least, that’s what his version is. He joked about it when I came out to him in high school. I don’t think it was that simple, but given that I was the only girl to see him naked throughout high school, I wonder if that’s just his secret superpower. But there was a reason that I came out to this overweight, unpopular man-child before I came out to my parents. He was my unassuming, non-judgmental, completely carefree best friend. He even let me ride his grandfather’s old bike, which was easily worth a small fortune to the kind of people who thought Storage Wars was a documentary. But the downside was that he was also lazy, immature, and wrapped up in himself. I think I truly realized this was when, the day after I’d come out to him After high school I ended up going to university while he went for college. I didn’t mind, because I’d decided I wasn’t going to be just “one of the boys”. I think it was around the time Millard kept joking that we could go to a bar and be each other’s wingman that I realized we’d drift apart. So four years, six ex-girlfriends, two one-night stands, thousands of dollars in student loans, and a bachelor’s degree later, I came back to my hometown to pick up the rest of my stuff. And it was then, about three years after we’d last spoken to each other on any of the many apps that we’d friended each other on, that I saw Millard again. Like me, Millard had changed his look since high school. He’d been working out a lot more, and he’d cut his wild, long hair into an army buzz cut for some reason, but it was him. I guess I was just shocked that he’d done close to the same makeovers that I’d done. It was actually kind of amazing to see Millard again, even if I had to remind him of his name by shouting it three times. He said it’d been so long since someone had actually called him “Millard” that he didn’t believe they’d been talking to him. So much for the doofus recognizing my voice. Who knew that a mere three years away from each other does cancel out the twelve developmental years before that? We went to one of the local bars that night, and it turned out that his nicknames at work were either ‘Mill’ or ‘The Mighty Mulloy.’

“How the hell did you get that name?” I asked him.

Millard smiled ruefully, and it was then that I noticed he’d chipped at least two of his teeth since we’d last seen each other. Before I could comment on it, though, he answered 5

my question. “So my buddies and I were out drinking this one Friday after the hockey game. We were already pretty sloshed and I ended up getting drunker than I’ve ever done before.”

“Please tell me this doesn’t end with you driving your buddies back.” I interjected.

“Nah, we were about fifteen minutes from home by that point. It was Brad, Jeff, Llew, and I. You remember them from high school?”

I vaguely recalled them.

Brad was the epitome of a dumb jock. He had once tried to insult me by calling me a philanthropist. After I’d burst out laughing, he’d sheepishly asked what a philanthropist actually was. The only thing I remembered about Jeff was that he had famously cheated on Becca Qwara, vice president of the Characters in Action committee. We’d all agreed that it was almost as ironic as the day when she found out and had then attacked him with a “Black Lives Matter” sign. Llew had once tried to enter the talent show with an impossible sex act that he and his boyfriend had discovered. Having witnessed it later at the after-prom party, I’d say they could have won first prize.

“Totally!” I said, hoping that Millard’s ADHD wouldn’t derail the story.

“Well I’d had to go home from the game to change outta my jersey and then I took my bike to the bar.” I stared. Millard valued that bike more than his own life. He saw my reaction and sighed, “I was already drunk from the game, what can I say? Anyway, so we finally left at 3 in the morning and we decided to crash at my place. I was too drunk to bike and so I was walking next to it. But these jerks wouldn’t stop asking me to try riding the bike! They just wanted to see me wipe out or something.” He paused for a moment to watch our waitress go by. He’s lucky I was watching her too or I’d have been angry. After we’d finished being pigs, he continued: “So then suddenly Llew turns around and yells “Look, a distraction!” When I turned to look, Brad grabbed my bike and said he’d ride it instead.” 6

I paused, afraid to ask what was on my mind, “Where is Brad buried?”

Millard laughed, “Nah, it wasn’t that bad. But close. I was super pissed. I actually chased him down on foot. Can you believe it? I mean he was drunk anyway and he was laughing so hard he couldn’t point the damn wheel in a straight line, but that just pissed me off even more! He was gonna crash the bike or get himself killed! Then I’d have to get the bike fixed or cleaned.”

“What did you do when you caught up?”

“I knocked right into him! He fell onto some guy’s lawn, so he was fine, but the bike was on top of him. And meanwhile I was still in Hulk mode and wanted to kick his ass, so I grabbed the bike and threw it out of the way. But… well, I threw it too hard. It wrapped itself around a telephone pole.” I wanted so badly to laugh at the irony facing me, but I couldn’t. Millard looked so morose at the memory that I couldn’t bear to mock him.

“On the plus side, I got a kickass nickname out of it, I guess.”

It was then that this beautiful woman who’d been sitting at a nearby table, approached Millard and asked him to stop speaking so loudly. After Millard went to the bathroom, I approached the woman (whose name was Laura) and offered to buy her a drink or two to make up for my friend. By the time Millard got back, I asked Laura for her number. And that was the story of how I met your other mother, kids. It was thanks to the accidental efforts of your godfather, the Mighty Mulloy.

Rude Words MEG FREER

It’s so bloody loud in here I can’t think! They are having a party, and I didn’t even invite any of them. They just showed up one night, and the night after that, and the night after that... Sometimes they arrive in the daytime. And sometimes they don’t even look at the time, and it’s the middle of the night when they barge in. I know most of them, but I’m quite certain there are a few I have never seen before.

Sometimes I feel kindly and rescue a few and set them in a safe place where they can gather their wits about them, and perhaps they will think about behaving a little better next time. But most of the time I want to stand on a chair and shout, “Would you all just please go home? You’re giving me a headache!” But that would be rude, and where would they go?

And they aren’t even very polite. They don’t wait their turn to be served, or to speak.They interrupt whatever I am doing, and chores go undone, meals go unmade, books go unread, music goes unlistened-to and unplayed, sleep isn’t slept. And they are messy too. Sometimes they fight and tear each other to shreds and strew the bits about, leaving me to pick up after them.

And some of them aren’t too bad after all. The neighbours are used to them by now. But then they start to push and shove again, jostling for position like subway riders waiting on the platform, as if they are worried they won’t make it into the last line or even the last stanza. So I resolve to be more patient and generous and give the words in my head another chance. I thought writing would be a quiet activity. Maybe next time they will knock first.

The Lady of Laughter (or,The Personification of Comedy) SAMMI COX

Throughout all time many had beckoned to the Lady of Laughter, seeking her out in the hope that she might bestow upon them the words and quips that would inspire others to laugh also. For in laughter there was to be found both joy and hope, two commodities that were valued very highly indeed, especially in those who had experienced terrible sadness.

But who was she, this Lady of Laughter?

Her name was Thaleia, eighth born of Memory, whose name was Mnemosyne, and her father was Zeus. There were nine sisters, all told, and each of them was destined to rule over a sphere in the realms of the creative arts. Of her eight sisters, it was Thaleia who laughed the loudest and the longest. Naturally, it would seem, it was she who would serve as the inspiration behind comedy. She lived on Mount Olympos, residing in the Hall of Comedy. Always there was the sound of laughter to be heard from that part of the Palace of the Muses, where she lived with her sisters. Around the walls hung the masks of her discipline; some were crafted out of clay whilst others were carved out of wood; some were painted whilst others were left bare. All wore the humorous grimace of a face caught up in laughter. In the centre of this hall was a pool from which she drew the waters of inspiration that was hers to command. Through the open window on the far side of the room, she would hear the words that those who lived in the lands below sent up to her, drifting in on the wind.

And what did these people say?

They begged for her attention. They pleaded with her to grant them the blessings of her comedic gifts. They prayed to see loved ones laugh and smile again after misfortune... Thaleia was not deaf to their supplications. On occasion, she would venture far beyond the walls of the Hall of Comedy, beyond the Palace of the Muses, even beyond Mount Olympos, and down into the temples and theatres, or by the wells where they worshipped her. If mortal eyes glimpsed her, what would they see? That depended on her mood. They might see no one if she chose to remain invisible to their eyes. They might see a young woman, dressed in the fashion of the day. Or they might see a goddess who wore a crown of ivy upon her head; who carried the mask of comedy in her hand; who wore an expression of amusement and a gentle smile that reached all the way to her eyes. And they would know her for who she was, whether they saw her or not, for her presence would be felt; as a lightness of spirit that descended upon them, as a laugh that escaped their lips, or, if they sought inspiration, as the words they most desired that crossed their mind as if they themselves had thought of them... 9

CR in Jail

MICHELE SABAD How long am I stuck here in this cage? I’m the only one here. I’m hungry. How could this happen? It’s been years since I was a stupid young pup and got picked up like this. I was just out searching, escaped from the house with the kids in the morning on their way to school. Mama hasn’t been around for a couple of days – where is she? Papa has been gone for longer than that, but I couldn’t find him anywhere after he left either. Instead of my usual night patrol, I needed to look for her during the day for a change. And yesterday morning I did make the break. Big Sis had left before the boys, so I knew I could get out with them if I timed the open door. And I did. There was no sign of Mama anywhere. I tried the usual rounds, but there sure are a lot more people out and about in the daytimes than after dark. I couldn’t find as much garbage to snack on either – I kept getting shooed away. And then the guys in the uniforms showed up – I hate them – but they did have some toast and peanut butter; who could refuse just a bite? I didn’t know they’d close the van door on me. At least they left the toast. Now here I am. How will I ever get out and find Mama? My kids are never around during the day – and they didn’t find me yesterday. This could be awhile. Might as well take a nap. Ellen sailed into their military Married Quarter townhouse on the South side after taking the bus home from the Base Petawawa high school on the North side. She was 17, and in charge of her 3 younger brothers this week while their mother was in Germany visiting their army father who was on his mid-tour break. Canada had a peacekeeping mission in Egypt going on in 1975. Her mother, excited for the week away to see her husband, had nevertheless been hesitant to leave them all alone, but Ellen was fiercely against any kind of sitter or nanny being assigned. She’d been babysitting her brothers since she was 10 and on this she and they stood solidly together – they weren’t babies, they were at school all day anyway, and could look after themselves. Mom had to agree – she was even proud of her unruly brood. “Hey,” Ellen called out, “Anyone home?” She knew her 16 year-old brother Kennie was hanging out with buddies and probably wouldn’t be around for supper, but she did expect her other two younger siblings, Brydon and Bruce, to be home soon demanding to be fed. As she walked into the kitchen, Ellen paused as she noticed the dog dish was still full from when she put in the Gainsburger that morning. “CR?” she called, waiting for the family dog to come running. CR was short for Crown Royal, because his hair was a nice caramel brown. She hadn’t noticed him tied up outside on her way in. He was probably upstairs on Mom and Dad’s bed. He’d been quite sulky since Mom left on Friday, but she’d never known him not to eat his breakfast. And what would he be doing in the house all day anyway? The last person out in the morning was supposed to hook him up to his chain outside. She hadn’t noticed on her way in if CR had broken the chain again or not. He was a smallish 10

mutt, only about as high as a terrier, but quite solid and strong. When they were smaller, the kids had tried in vain to train him to pull them on toboggans and wagons, like a sled dog, but CR had never obliged, preferring to run back and hop on with them. Her youngest brother Bruce banged in the front door. “I’m home!What’s for supper?” he bellowed with a voice bigger than his 10 years warranted. Stomping straight to the kitchen, he joined Ellen looking down at the dog dish. “Hey, Brucey,” Ellen said, “Have you seen CR? CR!” she called around the corner up the stairs, “Come here!”

“I’ll check,” Bruce took the stairs two at a time. He hadn’t taken off his runners.

“Not up here!” came the response. The MQ was one of the largest styles, but they weren’t hard to check out quickly. Upstairs was just a hallway with 5 doors leading to bedrooms and a single bathroom. No CR. Clomping back down, Bruce and Ellen decided neither of them had heard him yelping to be let inside in the middle of the night from his usual prowl; come to think of it, they didn’t remember him begging to go out either. And was it just this morning that Ellen had filled his dish? Or maybe yesterday… she’d been pretty busy getting ready for school and doing chores – she honestly couldn’t remember when last she’d seen CR! Maybe Brydon or Kennie knew what was up. They made some Kraft Dinner and boiled wieners while they waited for their brothers to come home. But Brydon phoned that he was going to a friend’s for supper and then to his ball game, and no, he thought Bruce was last out this morning – didn’t he tie up CR? No, he hadn’t heard him go out or come in last night. And Kennie, well, he lived his own life, as any 16 year-old boy was apt to do. Ellen and Bruce ate their dinner while Ellen decided what to do. “Hello? Military Police? Yes, I’d like to report a missing dog. Yes, I’ll hold. “ Bruce hopped around her, “Is he there? Is he?” On military bases, there wasn’t really a dogcatcher. The MPs scooped up any strays and held them themselves. Who knew what they did with them if they weren’t claimed? “Hello, yes, he’s a little brown dog. Well, golden actually. His name is CR… He is?” Ellen nodded her head up and down to Bruce. “What? Well, how much is the fine? And for 2 days of food? He’s been there for 2 days? “ Ellen and Bruce looked guiltily at each other. Bruce was starting to tear up. “Well can I come get him? Yes, we can come tonight. 6 o’clock at the MP shack. What’s the building number? Yes, on our way.” Ellen hung up, grabbed her bag where the emergency money from her mother was stashed, and she and Bruce took off for the North side base. 11

It was quite a hike to the base, really. But they knew the shortcuts, across lawns of the PMQs – no one put up fences in military housing in those days – through the woods cutting down to the Petawawa river, back up to the road across the bridge, to the North side where all the military buildings were. It was June; the sun was still high. Ellen and Bruce were breathless running to the MP building, which they found by following the gridlines of the laid out streets with their building numbers large and prominent. They got to the right one, indistinguishable from all the other low square white military buildings. There were no police cars or anyone around. The front door was locked. But then they heard barking. Running around the side of the building, there was a high window but nothing to stand on, so Ellen boosted Bruce up to look in. The window was cracked open and with their noise and voices they must have riled CR up; they now heard the familiar barking inside increase to the whining crying tempo they recognized as their CR in trouble! Bruce was crying now too, “CR, CR! You bad little doggie! We’re here! We’ll get you out! Ellie, Ellie!” Just as Ellen had to drop him – Bruce was getting big – a little Volkswagen Beetle pulled up to the side of the building. What a sight they must be, Ellen realized. Sweaty and scruffy from the run here, a scrawny little kid and his big sister. Ellen straightened herself to meet the young man approaching out of the car. Was this the MP? He was young and not in uniform, and now a young woman stepped out of the car also and waited beside it. His wife? “We’re here for our dog, please,” Ellen declared with all the dignity she could. Bruce was trying to control himself beside her, but couldn’t stop whimpering, in tune with the mournful yelps coming from inside the building.

“Um, where are your parents? I thought I was talking to your mom on the phone.”

“My mother is in Germany visiting my father, who’s on tour in Egypt. You said there was a fine, and for the 2 days’ food, how much again exactly?” Ellen asked precisely. “Please, let us get our dog, he’s barking himself hoarse.” She was pleased at how controlled she sounded. “Yes, sure, come on.” Flustered, the young man unlocked the door and led them inside. CR couldn’t restrain himself; once out of the cage he went nuts licking and crying all over Ellen and especially Bruce, who was also crying and laughing and hugging. Ellen turned back to the young MP who must have dogcatcher as a secondary duty - meaning he was pretty young and new at this job. Ellen tried to hand over the cash. “No, no way,” he said, hands up. “The fine is suspended.” Ellen tried to insist, but by then the young wife had walked over. 12

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“South side, Dundonald Drive,” Ellen replied, noticing then that she had forgotten the dog leash. He didn’t look like he would now, but they didn’t dare trust CR not to bolt once he was free. Although loving and cuddly in the house, he was pretty badly behaved outdoors. So she realized that they could expect a long hunched-over haul back home taking turns just holding his collar. She and all her brothers had had plenty of uncomfortable experience with that!

The wife said, “We’ll drive you.”

The car ride back was a little scrunched, Ellen and Bruce and CR in the back seat of that Beetle. The young couple, probably only a few years older than Ellen herself, questioned them all the way home, probably wondering if the kids were abandoned or something. But Ellen straightened them out and had all the right answers; they were a pretty normal military family living a pretty ordinary base life, after all. When they got home, they fed and hugged and petted their beloved little Crown Royal. He accepted this homage happily, and plotted his next escape.

Sense of Humour ASHLEY NEWTON

Nightmares have a wicked sense of humour. They thrive upon being the stalkers of the night Who watch through the windows as you sleep, Waiting for the chance to disrupt stability. You toss beneath quicksand and clutch fiery pillows Until your gasps become sips of ocean water That fill your lungs to their satisfaction. When you wake, you are sure the sounds of laughter Protrude from beyond somewhere unseen. You are right to do so. Their friends often band together To make the mind heavier when your neighbours Are too afraid to be home alone. Even black phantoms know how to make love; Know how to bear and give life to night terrors. Only then is your distress made public, Your sweat served as refreshment. You become the punchline to a joke you’ve never heard, But to them, it’s their favourite part of the anthology Written to reference the hilarity of obscure fears. Those nightmares were once like you, too, With common habits designed in avoidance of dread. Hold on to the edges of your darkness, Without it you’ll have nothing to fear, But you won’t have much of anything, Save for a sense of humour; The only thing you might have When you’ve been reduced to nothing but shadows. Perhaps that’s why the nightmares laugh at you.

Comedians Can Be Our Modern Day Philosophers ADRIANA GREEN

If Socrates saw a “deity” then I might as well be The Second Coming. Call me your Messiah as I pick the pockets of your beliefs. Cries from starving crowds needing something to take their pills with. Hungry for a lie to sink their teeth into. And we can throw all we know to see what sticks. Point out of a bowl of fruit - watch them paint it instead. We can make molehills out of mountains, doesn’t have to be the other way around. “Hemlock goes better swallowed with water than with pride” - I’m sure he would say. And damned if he wanted to be followed. And damned to the role models. The charlatans whose rings we kiss. The feet we see when we open our eyes, when we’re down on our knees. The hemlock would go better swallowed with water than with his pride. So let the comics sing their cynic’s anthem - let them be a voice for the voiceless. Let them turn bedlam into a vacuum. Let them take our band-aids off the places we don’t want to touch - to be exposed for all of us to see - all of us as one. Comedians Can Be Our Modern Day Philosophers. Let them lead us into our own vices. Let them hold that mirror. Let them laugh at you. Let them laugh at themselves. And we’ll learn.

Thank You, Mrs. Morrison KYLE CLIMANS

Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. And may I say, thank goodness for that.

We first met on the first of April 1999, the day I decided would be my last. I didn’t want my death to be too macabre, so I chose April Fool’s Day in the hope that at least some mad bastard out there would laugh and say, “Oh very funny!” when told that I’d flown from the Mayberry Bridge in my underpants. Of course, it was all fine and well in theory, but when I got to the bridge, everything started to go wrong- at least, wrong in the sense that my plan wasn’t working out. I figured I’d spare any children the sight of my jump so I’d arrived at 4 in the morning on only two hours of sleep (which, for the record, did wonders to keep me in the appropriate mood, I certainly recomm—actually, never mind). But when I got there, I found it was much colder than I’d anticipated. And it was still raining from the day before. And so I decided to wait until sunrise, due to my unexplained affinity for The Lion King. But then I was fixated on repeating the opening chant of that movie to go along with the sunrise, and I got caught up wondering if I had enough time to do it when I fell, or if I had to stand on the bridge chanting aloud before flying downwards. Would someone have an urge to stop me from doing it? Or would they be too busy waiting for me to shout April Fool? I continued to sit on the bench as I wrestled with these important issues. By the time the sun was halfway visible, I was sufficiently annoyed to get the whole damned business over with. But as I stood up and prepared to undo my trench coat (I know, I know... if it helps, I only purchased it specifically for this task), a voice called out.

“Sir, your epidermis is showing!”

My embarrassment was so strong that I cried out and jumped onto the road. A taxi driver blared his horn as I scurried back to the sidewalk just in time (which, all things considered, was very counter-productive of me). The woman who had made that odd request was standing on the sidewalk by this point. She was dressed in clothes that a woman like her would wear at a charity ball,sponsored by the mayor, or even the Premier (well, not necessarily the Premier of the time; Mike Harris was well known to be a miserable and grasping son of a bitch). Her hair was greying, and her face, deprived of any makeup, was unashamed of its signs of aging (not that she should have been ashamed, mind you, some people are just very insecure about that kind of thing). 16

The woman suddenly cocked her head to the side and gave me a wryly amused look, “That’s that, then.” This second statement did nothing to clarify the situation. For a moment I had absolutely nothing to say. I was sweating profusely, and my mouth was dry, opening and closing like the goldfish I’d accidentally allowed to die when I was a child (the guilt of that inaction on my part had helped me decide to give myself over to the fish when doing myself in).

Eventually I did get some sense back into my head.

“What’s what? We haven’t done anything yet.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It means you’re not completely crazy.”

“Thank you, but I think I’m a bit crazy anyway because I don’t actually know what an epidermis is.”

The woman laughed, “It’s a layer of your skin. April Fools.”

I don’t know whether I was more disappointed by this revelation, or the fact that it caused me to lose the first erection I’d gotten in almost a week. She noticed my disappointment (not due to my lost erection, I should cla- well, actually I don’t know, she never said she didn’t notice it...) and a look came onto her face which reminded me of a girl I once asked to the dance. “Alright, cards on the table. I wanted to distract you before you jumped off the bridge. A joke for the greater good, to put it another way.” I was surprised, but I also thought the situation was appropriate for me to do a Three Stooges-style double take. It was a flawless imitation, made more unique due to my twitching hands.

Unfortunately the effort had distracted me from what she’d actually said.

After she’d repeated herself (and complimented my Three Stooges impression), I asked her how she knew I’d been preparing to jump. “Well, you were thinking aloud. Excellent rendition of The Lion King’s opening, by the way. Do you speak Zulu?”

“No, I just imitated the sounds. But thank you.”

“So why did you persuade yourself that life had nothing more to offer you?” 17

“That’s really presumptuous. I’m not some sad loser who just realized that train spotting was a waste of my life or something like that.” The woman smiled, “No, you’re a young man in a trench coat who spent fifteen minutes doing an African chant from a children’s movie. Much more dignified.” This joke was so devastating to my disposition that I somehow didn’t see or hear the onion merchant who apparently passed by at the worst possible time. She put a hand on my shoulder, “Now now, no need for that, I was just trying to teach you a lesson about assumptions and putting others down to make yourself feel better, it wasn’t malicious. Now let’s go to my apartment, someone called the police on you five minutes ago.” We hurried down city streets, avoiding sirens and angry flashers who thought I was encroaching on their turfs. One of them even threatened to report me to their union. After what felt like an hour of traveling to this woman’s apartment (in hindsight, this was stupid of me, because my place was ten minutes away from where we had met), she remembered that she’d moved out of the old address and so we had to find her new location. Her apartment was awful. It was cluttered with old furniture, boxes that were still packed with belongings, and a three-eyed cat who hissed dark messages at me in Greek. At least, that’s all it seemed to me. All in all, I was very happy that she’d moved out of it because her new place was much cleaner and well kept. I especially liked the pink elephants masturbating in the corner, but she only gave me a sad look when I mentioned them. After my second cup of tea with her (we drank in almost complete silence as I tried to think of something to say while she simply smiled and waited), I remembered that I still didn’t know this woman’s name. She said that her name was Mrs. Morrison. She explained that she had been so angered by her father and grandfather’s insistences that she marry, she decided to change her surname to the surname of a musician she’d once met, and her first name from Mary to ‘Mrs.’ out of pure spite. Mrs. Morrison had long lost touch with either of them, but she revealed that she had a husband and son whom she occasionally kept in contact with, but her son had made a powerful enemy who targeted them all. He wouldn’t be easily shaken off, so all three had gone their separate ways to fool him. 18

“What does he do?” I asked, privately planning to find this villain and kill him.

She smiled and replied, “He’s in real estate.”

“That sounds lucrative.”

“It certainly is. He buys any apartment I move into to try and get me. But I move out as soon as I receive the legal notice of ownership change. So he either keeps the apartments or he sells them off for a better price than he paid. He’s become rich off of it, so I think he just chases me for my good taste in apartment hunting. It’s a fun exercise for us. I even leave taunting letters and he makes public announcements after me in the paper. He even convinced his real estate partner to become president just to spite me. He thinks I’ll sink to his level and hate him. Bless his heart for trying so hard.” I was getting antsy. The hamster on my shoulder was urging me to go back to the bridge and finish what I’d started. She must have noticed for she suddenly suggested we have some fun while we were here. After an afternoon of chess games, board games, cups of tea (for some reason I stayed away from the sugar cubes), episodes of “I Love Lucy” and a horrifying moment when she took the villainous hamster from my shoulder and threw it out the window, I begged her to marry me, having temporarily forgotten her earlier story about how she didn’t want to marry. To her credit, she only slapped me once, on the palm of my hand, which she said was a High Five in congratulating my courage to ask her. “I appreciate your newfound love for me, but let’s keep our friendship a non-sexual one. Those suit me much better, just ask my husband.” It suddenly occurred to me that I had been planning to die, but for some reason I couldn’t remember why. “You’re thinking aloud again, sweetheart,” Mrs. Morrison announced with a giggle that made me want to propose to her again. “And don’t think about that, it does you no good.”

“What do you suggest then?” I asked.

“Do something worthwhile and meaningful. There are a lot of upset people and I’m so busy that I cannot even consider dying, just ask my son. He only took a three day weekend before coming back, and he’s still overwhelmed. A little help from ordinary people would go a long way.” I thanked her for the advice, took a cold bath at her insistence (she said it was good for my heart and soul, but I also got the beginnings of a chill), I got dressed in some nice clothes which she gave me to replace the trench coat, and walked out of her apartment with a newfound purpose. 19

Oh, and I did a few other things in between those which I just described. I gave Mrs. Morrison a chaste kiss on her hand and asked her if I’d ever see her again.

“Someday we will. I promise.”

So I’ve written about this experience, as a testament to my new journey in life. If ever I see a man or woman declaring that their lives are pointless or they see nothing but darkness, I’ll be there reminding them that if they open their eyes again, they will see light (unless they’re blind; boy oh boy that was one experience I won’t repeat again, but Mrs. Morrison will know what to say to them so they feel better). On that note, my experience has also opened my own eyes to the beauty in this world. And for once, I didn’t need to take LSD to see it. To be fair, I’ll miss the hamster, the elephants, and the gentlemanly hippo dancing on the ceiling of my apartment, but as I was once told in a dark room, there is more to be seen than can ever be seen. One day you’ll see those things too. It’s never too late. I’m here for you, and so is Mrs. Morrison.

Wrestling Demons MEG FREER

There was a time not long ago When writing demons had me in tow. They tied me down and made me write, And write and write, and write all night. I had no rest, no food, no air. I feared that I was drowning there In streams of words with no way out. “Words, words, words!” I heard Hamlet shout. The demons nearly pulled me under, Taking me with them as their plunder Down where Lucifer did retire When he proudly did aspire To be something he was not. “That’s not my style,” I boldly thought. The demons were strong, but I was stronger. The fight was long. They are no longer In my head, in my pen. Rest and peace reign once again. Sisu* bravely showed the way. Now I relish each new day. And if those demons should return, I’ll shut them out and bid them learn They’re not as welcome as the birds, And I control who writes the words. *SISU: FINNISH FOR STUBBORN, STOIC DETERMINATION

Ideas on Humour BRUCE KAUFFMAN

I suppose first I should introduce myself. I am, we are, these words you’re reading on this page. I’m like a lot of other words, but I am these words – so I am a bit different. But not a lot. And as I think about it, I’m not really so different. I am exactly the same words as all the other words, I’ve just decided to place my words, myself, ourselves, a little different than the other words you’ll find on some other pages. I, we, might even be the same words – because you see some guy, the other ‘me’, is typing them. And the guy typing us can’t even be a hundred percent sure that there isn’t some other person typing these words in ‘exactly’ the same way – maybe even at exactly the same time as he’s doing this. Maybe, though, they live far away. And they’re typing the exact same words in the exact same order, but in a different language. So those I guess would be a little different. They’d sound different. Well, to him at least. But they would say the same thing, kinda. Someone would have to translate them for him – and if that happened, either the words or he might get lost in the translation. It would probably be him. He gets lost. He gets lost a lot. I, I mean ‘we’ the words, think I know where we’re going, but then we get other ideas. Like this. Like now. I get distracted. Plus there are a lot of me, I mean again the words. There are lots of us – and we’re all trying to get to that guy who’s typing us to use each of us first. We’re competing to be the next one he types, but then he tells us he can’t use one of us because then these things he calls ‘sentences’ won’t make any sense. What are ‘sentences’? We’re always just a bunch of words hanging around in some box, sometimes we like to go play in his head. I should add that ‘sentence’ is one of us. You know, one of us ‘words’, but we don’t know him very well. He kinda stays off in the corner by himself. We don’t listen to him much because when he talks, it’s a bunch of stuff together. And then he stops. And then he doesn’t say anything for awhile really, period. Is double entendre a real word? I mean two words, really. If it is, maybe us ‘words’ just did something there. Not sure. And like, I, we, was/were saying, we’re just a bunch of rambling words. ‘Rambling Words’, now that would be a cool name for a band. Or even a writer. Maybe even a poet. There you go. See? I already told you we get distracted easily. And I think the guy typing these words is getting upset with us, so I guess we should be paying more attention to what he’s trying to do. But please remember, we’re still in control here. He only thinks he is. So now a bit back on track, and as he naively thinks ‘he’ was saying, we never go anywhere in any particular order. We, us words, just like to hang around, sometimes in groups, sometimes alone. It’s not like we never go anywhere in like a straight line or anything. Sometimes we do. But for the most part we just hang around. Have fun. Sometimes when the guy typing this isn’t listening to us, we make fun of him. Yeah, sometimes he’s like way too serious. 22

In fact, last night when he went to bed knowing he was going to type something kind of serious about humour when he got up this morning, a bunch of us words – and I mean a whole bunch of us words – got together and all night while he was sleeping chanted ‘Don’t do that. Don’t do that’. I mean, all night long over and over and over nonstop we chanted. We think it worked – but we’ll wait until the end of this and see what he does with us. The guy typing these words, why am I say that ‘these words, when I mean when he is typing ‘us’. Anyway, he thinks he’s funny. Sometimes he is kind of funny, but we also think that most times he’s his best audience. Oh, oh. He’s getting frustrated with us now. We’re digressing again, or is it distressing again. LOL – oh, oh. We forgot he doesn’t like acronyms. We can’t help it. Sometimes we like to be less formal, you know. Just go by our first letter and hang out in a group. It’s okay with us, but still he doesn’t like it when we do. He’s most of the time writing us as poems. We don’t like that. He uses too few of us and puts us on a page sometimes in a weird order. We feel kind of strange there. Like exposed, kind of naked. So a lot of us know when he picks up the pen, we run and hide somewhere where he can’t find us. But we think he’s on to most of our hiding places. And another thing, sometimes he uses a blank line between us. What’s up with that? I mean there are a lot of us, and he didn’t use any of us. I mean, not only it, but there’s a lot of space on a page where he could have used more of us. But we guess maybe that’s just his ‘gig’, so we go along with it. But now there’s a whole bunch of us on this page. So we feel better. We do kind of think the guy typing this, though, is using a bunch of us just to make this bigger. But you know what they say – ‘Go big or go home’. Wait a minute. The guy typing this is ‘home’. And we’re there, too. Well not now. I mean you’re reading this somewhere else. But maybe you’re home. In your home. If you’re not home and this isn’t making any sense, then maybe you should wait until you get home to read us. We still won’t make any sense, but at least you’ll be home. There you go :) - (The guy typing this doesn’t like acronyms, but he loves emoticons – and as yet another aside, ‘emoticons’ she’s still a baby word. She’s new to the pack. Some of us words are really old and it’s fun to have some new younger words in our group now). Well, this guy typing is getting a bit frustrated with us because again we’re digressing. But a bunch of us are still laughing that he called all of us together in this his ‘Ideas on Humour’. Ha Ha Ha (we’re identical triplets, nice to meet you, btw) – what ideas????????? Seeeeeee, he even started this thinking he was going to be serious. We showed him!!!!! The chanting last night worked. Again, we’re just a bunch of rambling words – flashback – yeah, Rambling Words. Would have been a great name for a band. Would have been a better title for this.

Unfunny Things ALYSSA COOPER I once knew a boy who called me a bruise. He said it was because of my hair, because that year I wore it in shades of black and purple and blue, that made my head look like broken vessels and then he smiled, and he waited, expectantly. And I laughed, even though he wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t funny. I am good at laughing at unfunny things laughing is easier than speaking, easier than reaching for a truth that is dark and heavy and suffocating, to drag it up into the light easier to laugh, than to see that uneasy turn in their eyes when I speak. Like laughing at bruise coloured hair, saying nothing of the bruises inside my ribs, 24

from my heart when it beats out of control. Laughing, when they tell me how skinny I am, so that they cannot see the meatless skeleton, masquerading inside my clothes, so that I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to say that I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t eaten in days. Laughing, when they complain that Canadian summers are too hot for jeans, instead of explaining the latticework of scars pressing against the denim that chafes my soft skin. I am good at laughing at unfunny things. I have practiced well, studied hard I have learned when not to speak. I have spent a lifetime choking on my tongue, hiding venom behind my teeth, laughing, even when laughing feels like coughing, when it feels like a fish hook, like cruel little barbs caught inside my throat, even when the sound turns my brain, 25

makes me mad, laughing, because there is nothing else left to do. I am good at laughing at unfunny things, the way I laughed at that boy, who called me a bruise, that boy who has never seen a swollen heart beat free of an aching chest. I am good at hiding scars with a choking cough â&#x20AC;&#x201C; good at laughing, and never saying a word.

OUR CONTRIBUTORS... Without the submissions from writers, artists, and photographers, Free Lit Magazine would not be possible! Please take the time to visit other websites linked to projects our contributors have been involved in, as well as the websites/social media platforms run by some of this issueâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s contributors: KYLE CLIMANS - Twitter ALYSSA COOPER - Website, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook SAMMI COX - Website and Facebook ADRIANA GREEN - Website and Instagram BARRY JOHNSON - Website, Instagram, and Facebook ASHLEY NEWTON - Website, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook MICHELE SABAD - Website

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