CONTENTS 4
sixteen minutes SAM DAVID
19
Facing Up LYNN WHITE
5
universal BRUCE KAUFFMAN
28
unheard EMMA ELOISE HUSSEY
6
Escape Artist ANNE MCEWEN
29
Rose Petals in a Dark Room MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON
7
A Feasible Protest in a Canadian Student Union JUSTIN PATRICK
30
the soft side BOB MACKENZIE
31
Four Hours ADELAIDE CLARE ATTARD
34
Temple Walls
35
Judgement RON CHASE
36
Shame EDILSON A. FERREIRA
37
Zero KAREN GUTHRIE WHITE
39
Cardboard Condo KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD
11
Survivor Tree May 2011 JOAN MCNERNEY
12
Inside LINDA MUSSELL
14
unspoken laws LINDA M. CRATE
15
Weathered Corpse LUIS CUAUHTÉMOC BERRIOZÁBAL
16
Pacem in Chao KYLE CLIMANS
18
The Killing Grounds ANDREW SCOTT
20
FEATURE
ALYSSA COOPER
Backwoods Smartphone Kiss JOHN TAVARES
Front Cover ALLY ZLATAR 2 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
Back Cover
SHANNON L. CHRISTIE
FREE LIT M A G A Z I N E Law Editor-in-Chief Ashley Newton
Literary Editor Eunice Kim
Staff Writers
Kyle Climans, Alyssa Cooper, Bruce Kauffman
Contributors
Adelaide Clare Attard, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Ron Chase, Shannon L. Christie, Linda M. Crate, Sam David, Ken Allan Dronsfield, Edilson A. Ferreira, Emma Eloise Hussey, Michael Lee Johnson, Bob MacKenzie, Anne McEwen, Joan McNerney, Linda Mussell, Justin Patrick, Andrew Scott, John Tavares, Lynn White, Karen Guthrie White, Cynthia Yatchman, Ally Zlatar
Colophon
Free Lit Magazine is a digital literary magazine committed to the accessibility of literature for readers and the enrichment of writing for writers. Its mission is to form an online creative community by encouraging writers, artists, and photogrphers to practice their passion in a medium that anyone can access and appreciate.
The concept of law means something very different to all of us. For some, it represents injustice, the failure to act, even racism and oppression. Some might consider law to be a necessary part of life or a way to maintain order and keep society in check. Some see how the law fails to make things right. Others may take the law into their own hands. Each work in this issue represents those different meanings – everything from the unjust situation of a homeless veteran in Dronsfield’s Cardboard Condo to a woman who seeks vengeance on her ex-husband in White’s Zero. It is in this issue that important topics are brought to light through each contributor’s experiences, thoughts, and ideas. All are valid and represent how we individually see and experience the world: sometimes optimistically, and sometimes not. How do you see it?
Ashley Newton Editor-in-Chief
Contact
editor@freelitmagazine.com
Next Issue
The Beauty Issue May 2019 VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 3
sixteen minutes SAM DAVID
A lazy drug deal informs The wisdom of the common person Fifteen seconds at a time These daydreams Are called profit prayers This miracle Is 150 lazy steps behind me
And known for nothing Not even a meal
Memory is collapsible And will make this corner Disappear Twice
And you beg properly
Center stage / Corner pocket A stick up In your best interest A playground catastrophe Makes murder Out of a beautiful soul And poets make poetry Show me the lie I’ll show you the massacre That built that lie
The fragility of what’s in your hand Reflected as it’s own art
Also called taking a bow There is no ideal state Only enduring freedom
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universal
BRUCE KAUFFMAN if there is universal law all other law is then beneath it subservient irrelevant and if there is indeed universal law it might perhaps only state that all things are already in motion outside our timid and broken scales of time and distance outside our clumsy measuring devices of the physics of even a day
always forging ahead rowing against the current uphill any of us can’t even absolutely accurately predict what the next instant brings while the universe wades in the river feels the full of its water comforted in it and itself and knowing only but fully that the next instant comes
in this river of life we enamoured in and armoured with our intelligence
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Escape Artist
ANNE MCEWEN freedom isn’t open doors never mind the window latch don’t be fooled your prison lacks walls that heart kicks at open air chaining itself and nothing more no lock could hold you tighter than your fear
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A Feasible Protest in a Canadian Student Union JUSTIN PATRICK
“The law doesn’t care about student unions. Those executives can do whatever they want and get away with it because the students don’t have enough money to sue.” Veronica’s lip curled in irritation at Amir’s words, but she knew he was right. All she could do was stare silently and admire his wry confidence, sleek yet jarring like the way his thick, black-rimmed glasses stuck out on his angular face. “But what about government oversight?” Kimi protested. “There has to be some government department we can talk to that deals with corruption.” “We tried that,” said a sombre voice behind them. The three turned to see James standing before them. His black winter coat was draped over his shoulders like a cloak, secured only by the top two buttons. He had been at this a lot longer than they had and it showed. He looked older than the average undergraduate student, not because he had started later but because his grey eyes lay dull and often stared straight ahead like he had nothing left to lose. Since Veronica had known him, he had developed a few white hairs around his temples. Accompanying him was Amanda, an upper year student who everyone thought of as the mother of their group. While she often remained positive, she also appeared sad and her eyes looked red around the edges as if she had been crying. James reached into a pocket on the inside of his coat and pulled out a white envelope that had been opened. He tossed it on the low table Veronica, Amir, and Kimi were huddled around. “Compliments of the provincial government,” James continued. “After six months, they sent a letter back saying it’s not a high enough priority for them. They wouldn’t even show us the student union’s letters patent and articles of incorporation like we had requested.” “Are you kidding me?” Kimi exclaimed. “We’re university students, we pay taxes to them. What’s the point of voting in their elections if they don’t do anything about the corruption in ours?” “How’s Chris?” Veronica asked, changing the subject. “Chris,” Amanda paused for a moment to think over her next words carefully. “We came from his office in the student union building. His mental health has taken a toll.” “We don’t need to sugar-coat it for them,” James said. “We met him to see if he had found any proof of election rigging, theft, or anything else that we’ve heard rumours of, only to find him passed out on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. He tried to slit his own wrists.” “What?” Amir gasped. It felt as if a sudden chill had swept through the room. Veronica tried to focus but it didn’t seem real and her mind wandered to haunting images of what Amanda and James might have seen. Then everything swam as tears welled up in her eyes. “You didn’t have to be so blunt,” Amanda said disapprovingly to James before turning to everyone. “We were able to get to him in time to find him still breathing, so we called an ambulance. Tracey rode in the ambulance with him. She had the most experience after being an emergency response guide for the last two welcome weeks. I think we should all go to the hospital now to see how he’s doing.” “No,” James’ body was tense and trembling slightly. “We need to wait until the others get here so we can go through the plan for the protest in the student union building tomorrow. We can’t let those abusive pieces of shit win or they will do the same to the next executive who gets elected and disagrees with them. Chris… should never have run for VP Philanthropic. I should have gone in his place.” “They would have disqualified you on false grounds like they did last election,” replied Amir. “They control the board of directors and the appeals committee. Plus, their staff members VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 7
essentially represent the past executives of the last ten years who just don’t leave.” “Is this not the time to go to the police?” Kimi asked. “They abused him so much that his life is threatened.” “It would be extremely difficult to prove that,” Amir answered. “The cops would probably just go interview the other executives who would say that they didn’t do anything. We told Chris to record meetings with them, but he didn’t. There is nothing under provincial or federal law to prompt them to conduct a more thorough investigation. The law doesn’t understand mental health almost as much as it doesn’t care about student unions.” “Stress sometimes stops people from thinking clearly,” James said. “But what’s done is done. Now that Chris will be in the hospital for a while, they will probably try to find a way to impeach him or forge his signature and say he resigned. In any case, he won’t be on the executive much longer.” There were a series of footsteps and everyone fell silent. They had picked their regular meeting location, a seldom-used lounge in the back of one of the science buildings where few involved in the student union frequented. Thankfully, their cover was not blown and it was merely some students from the political party clubs who had come to plan the protest. Over the next fifteen minutes, more students began to arrive, including representatives from clubs, societies, and faculty student associations. Over twenty had assembled when they decided to start the meeting. James rose to his feet and pulled a piece of chalk out of one of his coat pockets. During a more cheerful time last year, he had told Veronica to always have a personal supply of chalk ready in case there was a need to write messages about resisting the student union on classroom chalkboards or outside on the concrete jungle of their campus. James turned to face those gathered and in similarly blunt terms, told them about what had happened to Chris, lifting his hands out from under his coat to show the sleeves of his skyblue button shirt stained red from applying pressure to Chris’ wounds. “Tomorrow, we will meet in the lobby of the university administration building at noon where we will organize signs, banners, social media, and other supplies,” James drew and A on the chalkboard and began drawing a dotted line to a B. “At one, we will form into ranks and march to the student union HQ. The political party clubs and activist collectives should be letting loose megaphone chants at that point. We should have spies already inside to hold the doors open, but just in case, we should rush the doors at the last hundred metres. From there, we occupy and fortify. We’ll need food to stay there a while, extension cords with power bars for the comms team’s laptops, and if it comes to it, maybe padlocks and chains to secure the doors.” James began listing items to bring next to the B. “What about campus security?” someone asked. “We have updated them about the protest so they will at least know what’s happening,” James replied. “It turns out the university doesn’t like the student union much more than we do.” “Should we wear masks?” asked another. “A law was recently passed that makes protesting with masks illegal in Canada,” said Amanda. “It’s rarely enforced though,” said one of the students from the antifascist collective. “And it’s winter, so just say it was to protect from the cold. Honestly, if the student union ignores laws and isn’t prosecuted, we shouldn’t care either.” “Hear, hear!” a bunch of students chanted as they pounded the desks. “We need to be cautious all the same,” Amanda warned. “We can’t stoop to their level.” There was a chatter of voices, followed by shushing. When it was quiet again, James continued. “For the few seconds that Chris was conscious before he was rushed to the hospital, 8 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
he gave me a USB with copies of files from the student union’s network drive. Once we’re secured, the comms team will start posting evidence through our Facebook page. We will need everyone to take out their phones and share each of the posts as it happens.” “Should we do a hunger strike?” one of the students asked. “Absolutely not,” Amanda said. “For our movement to succeed, it has to be one of healing. Hurting ourselves will not help us in the long term.” “And the fact is,” James added. “The university and the authorities probably won’t care if we starved ourselves to death. Even though the student union takes in millions in student fees every year and provides services that are necessary for many students to complete their degrees, it’s still seen as no different from a high school popularity contest student council that organizes dances and bake sales. Furthermore, student unions are forced to behave like non-profit corporations, so democracy is optional.” There was some further discussion about logistics, including rendezvous points after the protest had ended or if they were routed. Veronica remembered James dramatically pointing his chalk at other letters of the alphabet that had been drawn and saying, “Here, here, and here,” like he was an 18th century military commander with a black greatcoat draped over his shoulders. “Take pictures of this chalkboard so you each have a copy of the plan,” James concluded. “I hope to see all of you at the university pub tomorrow after this is over.” The students rose to their feet and departed in small groups into the winter night. Veronica went with Kimi, Amir, Amanda, and James to Amir’s car where they drove to the hospital. After a twenty minute drive, they arrived and were led by a nurse to a room on one of the upper floors. The curtains were drawn to reveal city lights twinkling like a candlelight vigil for as far as the eye could see. Tracey was in an armchair next to a sleeping Chris who was hooked to a multitude of tubes and sensors that showed information on machines that glowed ominously in the dim lighting. His entire left forearm was bandaged. “He’s stable,” Tracey breathed as Amanda gave her a hug. “His parents are coming tomorrow morning so I’ll be able to attend the protest.” The group chatted for a few hours about Chris, about the protest, and about all the time they had spent opposing the corrupt student union. Veronica felt that they always had to work with next to nothing while the student union establishment held all the cards. “It would be better if student unions were treated more like democratic student governments instead of corporations,” Amir said after she had voiced this. “That way there would be more mechanisms to resist without protesting and risking going outside the law.” At around 11:00 PM, it was clear everyone was getting tired. Amanda and James stayed with Chris while Amir drove Veronica, Kimi, and Tracy home. *** Veronica could only remember bits and pieces of the following day. Thoughts came and went like shards of broken glass. A hundred students gathered in the university administration building. Banners of every major political party plus the communists, as well as a number of other extracurricular groups and collectives. Many wore masks, heavy winter clothes, and backpacks full of supplies. Tracey was resplendent in her red jacket and matching bag of medical supplies over her shoulder. Someone handed Veronica a sign that said “No quarters for HR abusers” with crude drawings of quarters on it to signify student fees. They assembled on one of the main roads through campus. James shouted, “Forward march!” and they began. “Intelligence indicates heavy resistance in front of the student union building,” Amir was saying to Amanda. The group turned a corner to find about twenty members of the establishment standing in front of the student union building’s main doors. Veronica was always surprised that such a small VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 9
group could control so many thousands of students. The executives were muttering threats into their megaphone about calling security. The protestors stopped until James’ voice rang out through another megaphone. “Ten paces forward!” It seemed like everyone stepped in unison. More threats from the establishment. “Ten paces forward!” The groups began throwing snowballs at each other. “Ten paces forward!” A campus security van was parked nearby and two of the security guards standing in front of it watching the scene suddenly looked up at the tops of the university buildings, then started putting on orange vests. Someone who was not James cried, “Charge!” and a hundred students ran as fast as they could. Banners in the front ranks lowered like makeshift lances amid the establishment’s taunts. Dull thuds of winter coats smashing together. Screams. “They locked the doors!” The sound of glass breaking. The doors bursting open and a red banner waving the protesters onward. A shattered megaphone on the steps. Faint whistling sounds, then rushing air. Inside the student union building, Veronica was knocked to the floor, eyes stinging and scarcely able to breathe. “No time to download the files. Take the whole tower!” She reached for her inhaler, letting go of the stupidly juvenile sign. She squeezed the button and for a few seconds, regained clarity. About half the protesters had made it inside. Chains and padlocks held the front doors closed. Students were throwing office supplies out the windows, as well as smoking tear gas canisters that had been shot in. “The cops arrived and are tasing people out there!” one of the antifascists shouted. James emerged from the back offices. “Comms team is posting. Not sure for how long they’ll be able to. Let’s prop these desks against the windows and—” A shot rang out, followed by multiple tear gas canisters. Veronica lost most of her visibility and her memories faded once more into opacity. “James!” Amanda screamed. “Medic! Medic! Tracey!” Sounds of a mad scramble ensued. Someone pulled Veronica to her feet and led her down the hallway to the back offices. “They’re coming in the back!” Veronica felt herself being shoved and then everything turned into dreams. *** Veronica came to on one of the couches in the science lounge from the night before. Amir sat on the ground beside her. His glasses were missing and there were cuts on his face. “Where…” she coughed a few times until she pulled her inhaler out of her pocket. “Where is everyone?” “I don’t know. Kimi was in the comms room. She handed me Chris’ USB. I lost sight of her soon after. Most were arrested. I think… James got shot. I carried you through a window and somehow evaded police and security.” “Did we accomplish anything?” Amir didn’t reply. Veronica sat up. “We should go,” she said. As the two staggered off campus, Veronica wished she could have spent her degree advocating for lowering tuition. Yet, that was a far-off dream, for the systemic corruption left students to instead combat each other. 10 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
Survivor Tree May 2011 JOAN MCNERNEY
There in core of the World Trade Center this pear tree stands. It grew from ash of bodies clasping hands falling in air. Cared for by those who believe in life. Now reaching for heaven despite the hatred of men screaming in streets. Look how sunlight touches each leaf. Think of every leaf being completely unique. There are none so blind as will not see all we have been given.
VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 11
Inside
LINDA MUSSELL The first time I walked Inside, through tall metal gates that smoothly glide, with the press of buttons that could permit or deny. I, quite free to come and borrow, time on campus intimately knowing, each moment of those who are not permitted to going. Crusts of snow under boot, leave pieces of identity for those to compute, my place within security layers active then mute. Invited to peer into private locked spaces, view programs imprint sanitized closed traces, see lines etched on over five-hundred men’s faces. Each crust of snow a different event, different winters, different lives winter spent, different gaits upon icy paths of cement. An outsider Inside walking in step, moving past others while not to forget, privileged freedom from deepening lines of life debt. And authority to leave when it’s getting late, moving along at less cautious rate, to exit firmly locking tall gates.
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CYNTHIA YATCHMAN
VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 13
unspoken laws LINDA M. CRATE
i may not understand scientific laws or mathematical ones, but i do know this is wrong; societal law is often unspoken yet it is enforced by the shape of those whom we love— they have been conditioned to believe we all need to live the same life to be happy, but sometimes we are happier forgetting who we were told to be; i won’t be a mother simply to abandon my dreams if i am a mother, then i will accomplish my dreams and resist that graceless flight into becoming just another cog in a machine that only exists to serve itself— just cannot abide by the laws of normalcy cannot be the caged bird nor the woman on the pedestal for i am wild, and i am done apologizing for being a raven instead of a canary; my talons will take the eyes of all those who try to tame me or steal my song.
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Weathered Corpse
LUIS CUAUHTÉMOC BERRIOZÁBAL A weathered corpse has no identification. There is a bullet-sized hole in his skull. If a passerby tries to take the corpse away, big brother sniper will shoot you through the back. The corpse is there for all to see as a warning for those who defy big brother who has taken all your rights away.
VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 15
Pacem in Chao KYLE CLIMANS
T
he roads were crowded on Election Day. This happened every time, Emery Hudson thought to himself as he fumed behind the steering wheel. He hadn’t been planning to go vote for his M.P. today. In fact, Hudson was of the mind to outright avoid voting this year in protest. He was only going to vote at the insistence of his boyfriend Michael. A radical new law had been set in place over the last two years, despite rampant opposition to it from all sides. After decades of decreasing voter turnout and increased outcries against the polarizing of politics, a thorough cleansing had been done within the government as more and more senators and members of Parliament had been replaced by younger people who held nothing but contempt for the system which had left so many of them deeply in debt and mocked for laziness. For more than a century, there had been the Liberals and the Conservatives. They’d spent all that time constantly fighting for who would sit in power on Parliament Hill. One power would surge to victory until it disappointed enough people to allow the other party to take control instead. Several smaller parties came and went trying to shake up the competitive and ultimately repetitive cycle. The names varied – Green, New Democratic, Alliance, Wildrose – but the cycle continued as usual. Something clearly needed to change, or so people kept saying. But how is it possible that everyone found some kind of fault with the solution, yet it still managed to happen? Emery drove his car to the community centre, where the polling station had been set up. It was already impossible to find a parking space, leading to him parking three buildings away. As if that wasn’t enough, Emery had to wade his way through a sea of protesters holding signs and attempting a makeshift rally. One woman wearing a blue coat seemed to be in charge. With a tall sign in one hand and a microphone in the other, she harangued anyone within earshot. “Our political system has been unjustly overhauled! We were lied to and manipulated into accepting a farce!” She raged, looking almost comical in her fury. Even as he muscled his way through the thick crowd, Emery saw that the lineup was very long. Even though everyone had gotten off work early to vote, there was no avoided a traffic jam of people eager to just get this voting over with. Emery found his place in the line and grumbled to himself. What was he going to do now for half an hour? His question was answered by the sudden presence of a voting official handing out sizable bundles of paper stapled together. Automatically, Emery took one before asking, “What’s this?” The official smiled mechanically, “We understand that you might need some help with deciding who to vote for with the new policy. Each candidate has provided a comprehensive breakdown of their views. Thank you for voting!” With this automatic answer given, she turned to get back to her desk. The man behind Emery snorted in disgust as he leafed through papers on all the candidates, “I don’t have time for this bullshit!” Similar voices piped up along the long line. Emery was silent and began to read on the candidates for his electoral district. 16 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
Barrington Clarke was a new candidate. According to his entry, Clarke was fully in support of the military and strengthening border security, but also embracing Canada’s multicultural identity with more than just half-measures and lip service. He devoted finely written paragraphs to these issues, barely having time to address much else. A final line at the end pleaded voters to look at his website for more information, and Emery made a mental note to check. He was sitting in line anyway, so why not? Kiri Haare had been a former member of the Conservative Party before the party was disbanded, though she had been forbidden to use that as a means of identification (Emery only knew that because he’d remembered seeing her on television, decrying the new system). Surprisingly, though, while she was still advocating for tough sentences for criminals and support for the military, she was no longer speaking out against social programs for the homeless or poor. In fact, she’d done a complete 180 on her former party’s stance and embraced the fact that crime prevention began with education and support options, even if that meant taxing the upper class to allow for it. Hwan Choe had either been a New Democrat or a Liberal, Emery couldn’t remember anymore. So many people in the different parties had crossed the floor, sometimes more than once, in order to try and stop this law from passing. Now, Choe was speaking about maintaining legal marijuana, legalizing medicinal heroin to save addicts from spreading AIDS through infected needles, along with more social programs to help wean them off their addictions. Choe spoke passionately of ending racism within the power structures, but also declaring that Canada must get rid of any free trade agreements that they had with outside nations, in order to better protect Canadian interests and jobs. The man who’d spoken up earlier laughed out loud, “Don’t they know that we remember who was in which party? Can’t hide who we’ll vote for!” Emery suddenly turned to the speaker, “This is the first time around. In a few years, everyone will forget about who was in which party. That’s the whole point of this new law.” Surprised at being challenged by a fellow voter, the man gave a sulky look, “You’re one of those, then?” Emery shrugged, “Nope. I wasn’t involved in any of this. I’m just riding the wave.” This conciliatory remark only seemed to anger the man further, “Then it’s your fault we’re stuck like this!” “Excuse me?” Emery said. “People like you probably didn’t give a shit about politics, so you sat back and let the radicals eliminate the parties! Now we’ve gotta pay for all your apathy and spend hours reading up on all the candidates! We’re all basically doing a job interview that we never asked for!” Emery frowned, but before he could respond, a short woman two people down turned and glared at his accuser, “That is exactly what democracy is! We have a responsibility for who is in charge! There’s no hiding behind labels or party platforms now!” That much was true, Emery reflected. Under this new system, Parliament would now rule collectively rather than be run by a Prime Minister. That office had been disbanded, and the departments would be filled by the members of Parliament. Further details had eluded Emery, but it seemed as though a giant council would be ruling Canada from now on. Critics had called it a step towards socialism, anarchy, oligarchy, whatever word they hated most. Emery sighed. This experiment was going to revolutionize politics no matter what happened. Either true democracy would prevail, or the nation would revolt and bring everything back to the way it was. It was then that Emery realized he was the next person in line. Taking his bundle of paper with him, he stepped forward. VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 17
The Killing Grounds ANDREW SCOTT
A supremacist walks through the holy doors with blinders and hate as triggers of the bullets that took the lives of nine African Americans that were kneeled in prayer. The hate trying to start a war of race with the death of the free spirit. Students holding protest signs marching for the end of a war, trying to end violence in another part of the world where people are dying for the political gain. The students bleed from the shots fired from the army of their own nation ending their voices for peace. Ladies walking around a campus of learning, books in hand, studying for a better life until a troubled man with a gun walked into their classroom and opened fire. Claiming to end feminism, targeting no men in his rampage through the school corridors. So many lost lives of those wanting to peacefully change the world around us. Taken by a person’s thirst to make innocent places a bloodied killing ground.
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Facing Up
LYNN WHITE You’re looking past her avoiding her eyes, the eyes of the woman in the front line of the protest the one who reminds you of your mother or your mother in law or your grandmother or all of them together. You don’t need to look at her, don’t need to meet the challenge of her eyes, you have the power you have the choice to look past her. You can do anything so long as you don’t face her so long as you don’t cower you have the power. You know it when you collect your pay check when you slither on your belly in the wet fetid gutter to collect your police pay check and take it home to your wife or mother or grandmother ready to meet her eyes proudly if only you could open the door if only she would open the door if only she would let you in if only your key would still fit her lock if only she would still look in your eyes. But she has the power to look past you. She knows it. She knew it then. You know it now.
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FEATURE STORY Backwoods Smartphone Kiss JOHN TAVARES
20 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
T
he British Airways flight attendant, who worked several years ago as a substitute teacher, recognized me, served me biscuits, almonds, and black tea, and stopped to chat when I told her I was emigrating to Canada. “My mother thought I was making a mistake moving to Northern Ontario, taking a job as a school principal in Beaverbrook. She urged me to stay home in London and accept the position as headmaster at a small private school for exceptional students in Chelsea.” As I read work-related documents, recent school board meeting minutes and the new course curriculum, I flew economy class from London to Toronto aboard a 777 jet, which the smiling flight attendant told me was on its maiden airline voyage across the Atlantic. From the airport terminal at Pearson International Airport, I hurried to franchise cafes and takeout kiosks, seeking the best cup of black tea I could find, before I passed through security gates and checkpoints, airport lounges, flight boarding, and passenger waiting areas. Meanwhile, habitually and repetitively opening and closing my foldable cellphone, I fielded concerned calls from my mother. Before I left, my mother tried to give me a refurbished Apple smartphone. I didn’t even want a cellphone, period, but my work as an education administrator demanded I have a mobile phone for communications so I opted for the sparest, leanest, toughest, and least expensive form of technology available, a basic prepaid flip phone. I explained to my mother, as I tried to control myself from getting exasperated at her declining memory and her tendency to repeat herself, in her advanced age, I cherished and appreciated life as a single man, as I also enjoyed travel and adventure, particularly if it involved my career as an educator. Single all my life, I was happy with my lifestyle choices and relationships, or lack thereof. When I took a Porter Airlines regional turboprop flight to Thunder Bay, I found myself sitting a few rows aft from a tall, thin, distinctive looking man, with a clean-shaven head, whom I later recognized as Eaglerock. He kept giving me this fierce and intimidating look, as he talked animatedly with a fellow passenger. I thought he looked Spanish or Portuguese, for some peculiar reason, possibly because I vacationed there during holiday breaks, as I overheard him saying he was also a schoolteacher, returning from the Pride Week parades and festivities in Toronto. Then I rode a bush plane through turbulent summer weather to Northwestern Ontario, across the aisle from the same individual, who glared at me as he read the Pride rainbow edition of NOW Magazine. My landlady, with whom I had already spoken several times long distance from England, knew in advance I was new to the town of Beaverbrook. When she heard and saw in the living flesh I was indeed from London, England, and the new principal of the Lost Lake High School, she waived my damage deposit and even insisted on returning last month’s rent, which I offered in cash, without requesting a receipt. She even offered me the use of her Honda Civic, rusty, dented, with a cracked rear windshield, which she said she hardly drove any longer. Ms. Jones said she retired from teaching a decade ago, after a career that spanned three decades. When she insisted on knowing more about me, I explained I was born and raised in Knightsbridge, but didn’t mention my privileged and wealthy mother, daughter of the heir to a marine insurance agency. “You’re from Knightsbridge, as in the Knightsbridge of The Rolling Stones’ song “Play with Fire.”” “Yes, you know the lyrics.” “I still have the original vinyl album. The Rolling Stones’ Hot Rocks was my favourite collection, but I must have played the records forever. Would you like to hear?” Before I could reply, she returned from her living room and a shelving unit, which held a bookcase, with hardcover and paperback books, record albums, compact discs, and a shiny vintage high-end stereo system. She proudly handed to me, encased and sheathed in a protective plastic covering, the double album The Rolling Stones: Hot Rocks. She pulled VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 21
out the first album, which contained “Play with Fire,” and was ready to play song on the vinyl LP on her turntable, but I warned I heard the album many times. She said she intended on keeping the album in her collection in mint condition and had even recorded copies of the album on cassette and then a blank compact disc. She said her mother bought her the album at the Hudson’s Bay Store on Front Street in the neighbouring town, Sioux Lookout, in 1972, along with a portable turntable, while she was waiting to catch a CN passenger train to the Lakehead. Her mother, who hated travel, visited her in Thunder Bay, where, after her first year of teacher’s college, she was a patient, suffering from depression, in the Lakehead Psychiatric Hospital. Jones said a nurse told her she held the record for having received the most electroconvulsive treatments in the psychiatric hospital. The staff allowed her to listen to the album and the music helped lift the depression she suffered. She didn’t know if the depression lifted spontaneously as she repeatedly listened to the album or if it was a result of listening to the album, but, aside from being her favourite collection, the Rolling Stones held a special spot in her heart ever since. I didn’t want to make light of her past condition or personal history, but it seemed as if a moment of levity was required. After unpacking and settling down, I decided to take advantage of the scenery, and some of the more endearing aspects of the Canadian Shield landscape, including the scenic beaches, fringed by evergreen forests, and the fresh water in the boundless lakes and rivers. As I drove around the streets surrounding the high school and downtown and along the highway, I saw the town of Beaverbrook and the neighboring town of Sioux Lookout in some respects resembled a reservation. I was beginning to wonder if I made a wise choice in accepting the position of principal of the high school. Jones joked I was hired because the high school was desperate for personnel. That hot, humid Sunday afternoon I sauntered down to the beach. I wore my thong and sandals and the strongest sunblock I could buy. The weather turned cloudy and humid, and thunderstorms billowed and towered, lurking on the horizon. The beach was beautiful, fringed with huge towering white pine trees. My landlady recommended the spot on the lake, which she called MNR beach, and it was surrounded by tall, majestic white and red pine trees, near a forest fire fighting base, with a helicopter landing pad, a communications centre, warehouses, and dormitories. She said she last visited the beach decades ago, when she was a young woman, but among all the beaches, including vacation resorts in Mexico and Cuba, this beach still ranked as one of her favourites. I thought I could understand why after I saw the scenery, a serene Canadian Shield lake, surrounded by countless miles of rocks and forests. Still, I was an avid reader and brought along Dickens’ Great Expectations. As I sat on the beach towel, reading the novel, I thought the text was remarkably prolix, but reading in the age of the Internet, email, and instant messaging neutered one’s literary tastes and style. I supposed I could blame the Internet for becoming moribund intellectually, for affecting a breezy style in my writing and taste for prose. I stretched out on the beach towel, applying suntan lotion. As I glanced up, I thought I saw Eaglerock, the geography teacher, whom I met at a professional development meeting held by the school board in the neighboring community of Sioux Lookout. That couldn’t be Mr. Eaglerock, I thought, when I saw him with a much younger person, but who else could the person be since this man, like Eaglerock, had a bald head and was remarkably tall and thin. The young man with whom he was socializing or romanticizing couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Further complicating matters for me was the fact Eaglerock’s younger companion appeared Indigenous, and I started to worry. Then I saw Eaglerock bend across the beach sand and a towel and plant a kiss firmly on his lips, as he held up his smartphone 22 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
and captured the image for posterity. Uh oh. I had to pretend I didn’t see that exchange, that gesture, that overt sign of affection, or however I wished to describe what I construed as blurring beyond the bounds of indiscretion into moral corruption. I wasn’t certain I understood the gesture’s meaning or significance, or indeed if it was even a kiss, but if anyone didn’t believe it was a kiss they were in denial. The kiss, moreover, was a full-throated, prolonged kiss on the mouth, and apparently the man was bold enough to record his transgression on smartphone. It was none of my business, I mused momentarily, as I applied sunblock and sipped sugar free cola from a can in my beer cooler. I saw an Ontario Provincial Police cruiser turn at the roadway to the beach. The officer stepped out of his cruiser and glanced down the beach with his cold stare. I thought I recognized him as a part-time school board trustee, but, from behind the uniform, baseball cap, and sunglasses, he certainly didn’t appear to recognize me. Then he stepped back inside the black and white police cruiser and drove off. The teenager—at least I thought the young man was a teenager—quickly got up from his towel, and the geography teacher threw on capri pants and a T-shirt. They departed in a Mini Cooper convertible with the roof down, a car which almost made me feel like I was back in England. This was a more unusual and peculiar situation, I thought, but possibly to be expected in a small town in northwestern Ontario. I continued to read, and swam far in the lake, admiring the warmth of the water. Then I toweled down and walked along the shore. Where Eaglerock lounged with his friend, I came across an open backpack filled with an unopened bottle of wine and an empty bottle of Crown Royal. There was also a smartphone on the sand beside driftwood, a tree stump, and the backpack. I assumed the pair had consumed too much liquor, panicked when they saw the police officer, then left in a hurry. I took the phone and the backpack to my beach towel and examined the bottle of wine inside the backpack. I enjoyed and appreciated the taste of the wine, a Bordello Meritage Blend, a wine made by The Dirty Laundry Vine yard in the Okanagan. There were even oxycodone painkillers in the backpack. I realized this medication might relieve the symptoms of kidney stones I was experiencing recently. Besides, I was open to psychological adventure with the passage of time and maturation. I took a painkiller and sampled the wine. I continued to read the Dickens, as the heat of the summer continued unabated into the August evening. Within an hour, I felt a buzz, mildly euphoric. As the sun settled beneath the horizon of the lake and forests, and I had difficulty reading for lack of light, I thought the time had arrived for me to purchase an e-book reader, with a lit back screen, and I decided I better return home to my meddlesome landlady. I packed the smartphone and the backpack and got in Ms. Jones’ Honda Civic. I drove into town from the gravel road to the beach and then along the highway and found myself trailed by an OPP cruiser. I started to worry about the fact I consumed a fair of amount of alcohol: a whole bottle of wine. The police officer put on her siren and flashers. She pulled me over and asked if I had anything to drink. I said I earlier drank a few ounces of liquor. The police officer explained she wanted to give me a breathalyzer. I failed the portable breathalyzer, but the police officer decided to give me a break because she recognized me. I thanked the officer and drove directly home as directed. I was beginning to think coming to this town to act as a high school principal was a mistake. I was even tempted to hand the backpack and smartphone over to the police officer, but I figured I knew the identity of the owner of the backpack. Besides, I didn’t want to complicate matters for anybody. I went home to the basement I rented and fell fast asleep on the couch. When I awoke in the morning, it was six a.m. I showered, shaved, and then VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 23
went for tea. Early in the morning, I walked into the empty high school and glanced at the group graduation portraits of students and teachers hanging on the walls outside the administration and attendance monitor and guidance counsellors’ offices. I even recognized the young man, Wesley, who had just graduated at the end of the spring semester. I noticed he was wearing traditional Indigenous dress and was holding an eagle feather in his graduation portrait, which caused me concern because it was my understanding that to hold an eagle feather was a significant honour. Then I finished some paperwork, took my laptop beneath my arm, and decided I would resume my work at the coffeeshop. When I arrived back at home in the basement, I discovered my landlady in hysterics. “You need to go to the authorities,” she insisted. “You need to go to the police. This man is a pervert.” “What are you talking about?” “Just look at the pictures of this man on the cellphone. He’s kissing this boy.” “Ms. Jones, what are you doing on that cellphone? I was going to return it to the owner.” “I knew it wasn’t yours because you told me you hate smartphones—” “I said I don’t use or need smartphones, with their apps and videos and cameras. I didn’t say I hate smartphones.” “But that’s how I knew it wasn’t your cellphone—you’ve an old-fashioned flip-phone, the kind that folds. That’s why I checked to see who owned it, and how do you check? You look at the pictures.” “You need to respect people’s privacy and mind your own business.” “You need to call the police.” “Ms. Jones, I can handle this matter personally—and professionally. I will talk to Mr. Eaglerock and get this matter sorted through and figured out.” “These pictures are simply unspeakable. Look at them,” Jones said, holding the smartphone screen towards me. “You need to take action.” “Then I’ll take action,” I said, trying to sound more committal, in a matter for which I had little conviction or certainty. I began to think I made a mistake moving from England to take a job as a principal at a high school in Northwestern Ontario. Now I felt encompassed by a scandal with the potential to destroy my career, so I considered the most prudent move was to discreetly ignore my own observations. I took the backpack and the smartphone and returned to the beach where I originally found them, which, I realized in hindsight, I had no business disturbing. I resumed reading Great Expectations. I thought of tossing Mr. Eaglerock’s smartphone into the lake and the backpack into the bushes, but my landlady insisted on punitive retribution, so I needed to alert him and reassure her I acted. She warned she even took photographs of the images with her own smartphone. How crazily redundant did these selfies and this smartphone picture-taking get? I read the novel until sunset. Hot, sweaty, and humid, I decided to take a swim in the cool lake and then, shivering, drove home and took a warm shower. In the morning, I finally found my cellphone and called the geography teacher. We agreed to meet at the Country Style Coffee & Donuts restaurant at nine p.m. I drove through an evening summer drizzle to the café at the edge of town. “Mr. Eaglerock, I have your smartphone.” I could see Eaglerock grow angry, as his muscles tensed and his face became suffused with redness at the mention of his mobile phone. “Well, could I please have my phone returned?” “You forgot your phone at the beach last Sunday. I should have left the cursed device stuck in the sand.” “Yes, thank you for finding and returning my private property,” Mr. Eaglerock said. He 24 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
turned on the smartphone, which Jones fully charged for her perusal, and immediately checked for e-mails and text messages. “Mr. Eaglerock, you need to end this relationship with this young man.” “If you’re talking about my friendship with Wesley, it’s none of your business. I’ve been a geography teacher for the past twenty-five years—since I was twenty-two. You can’t tell me with whom I can or cannot associate.” “Mr. Eaglerock, the times have changed. A high school teacher, even off duty, is expected to conduct himself in a certain manner.” “My friendships are my own personal and private business. I’ll not have a carpetbagger, who sounds like a BBC announcer, tell me who I can have for friends.” “Your friend is young.” “My so-called friend is eighteen years old. I’ve known Wesley since he was a senior. He’s a disabled learner. He was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, but despite suffering that condition and Attention Deficit Disorder, he managed to graduate with his Ontario Secondary School Diploma.” “Yes, he’s still a student, and therein lies the complication and source of concern.” “Wesley just graduated, but he’s a mature student and plans to return come fall to obtain a few academic credits and raise his grade point average. He hopes to improve his odds for admission to a college trades program. He dreams of welding pipelines in the oil sands. You’re just starting your job as principal, so how do you even know he’s a student?” I was uncertain I had the authority to inquire, but I was sufficiently concerned and bluffed. “I checked his student records online, as easy as the push of a button.” “Are you even authorized to see his academic records?” “Mr. Eaglerock, I’ve been a high school teacher in the UK for twenty years. I worked for an investment bank for a decade before I switched careers. You can’t expect me to be naïve.” “You sound like a prude, Mr. Woodbridge, and you need to be careful about the personal lives of your teachers. It might come back to bite you.” “Are you trying to threaten me, Mr. Eaglerock?” “Mr. Woodbridge, I’d like to remind you I’m First Nations, Anishinaabe. My mother is Ojibwe, from Lac Seul, and I never met my father, who, my grandfather informed me, was an American tourist outfitter who took advantage of her and got her drunk when she visited a bar in Sioux Lookout. I consider myself Indigenous, Anishinaabe, not English, not hyphenated-Canadian, and, in fact, I am a band member of Lac Seul First Nation.” “I don’t necessarily understand what that’s supposed to mean.” “I don’t subscribe to the white man’s code of justice. Do I look like a white man to you?” “Why aren’t you teaching at the reservation school?” “Because the public high schools in Sioux Lookout and Beaverbrook were the first places to hire me after I graduated from teacher’s college.” “Mr. Eaglerock, need I remind you have little moral authority on this issue? Whether legal or not, my landlady snapped photos of the pictures on your own smartphone with her smartphone.” Eaglerock’s hand trembled—I sensed from more anger than fear—spilling coffee on the table. He wiped the splash and small puddle of coffee with paper napkins. I continued. “With her liberal standards, unfortunately, she sounded sufficiently scandalized and shocked. She is an alarmist, but I suppose her opinions would hold weight with the average parent, teacher, or trustee who attends a school board meeting.” Eaglerock pounded the table in exasperation. “You must end your relationship with this young man immediately. Then you must consider what you will do with this smartphone. You must exercise careful and prudent judgement and do whatever you consider best for your students and yourself. Appearances VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 25
and perceptions matter and the times have changed. These days even more is expected from our teachers, whom, I’ll be first to admit, are overworked and overburdened. I hope you understand my concerns.” I sensed the antagonism Eaglerock exhibited earlier was diminishing as he seethed and sighed. “Id it is not only your career at risk, but mine as well when it has barely starteo here. I moved all the way from England to take this job, but now I must deal with a potential scandal— which may torpedo my career.” Eaglerock quickly ordered a takeout coffee and then stood up to toss his napkins in the wastebasket. “I never meant anyone any harm or intended for anyone to lose their job.“Usually, I’m careful, but I think I had a little too much to drink that afternoon. My mother passed a few months ago, so I’ve been using liquor as a coping mechanism.” “Which reminds me.” I reached beneath the chair and passed him the backpack. I asked him to please sit down, but he insisted on standing, though he listened carefully and looked me directly in the eye for the first time. “When I first graduated from the London School of Economics, I worked for a decade in London’s financial district in investments, the bond and stock markets. I was a trader, but I discovered traders could be greedy, ambitious, pushed the envelope, and went over the line. Some could be corrupt and took shortcuts or actions plainly unethical or immoral or downright illegal, in selfish disregard of the clients’ best interests. I decided to report them to my supervisors and the regulatory agencies. Even though I did the right thing, I was considered a whistleblower and a rat. I was denounced by my employers and fired on some trumpedxpretext. I committed the cardinal sin of exposing the weaknesses in the business, including in oversight. So I could never work for the company or in that industry againb. Please don’t put me in that position agaih.” Earlier, Eaglerock appeared aggressive and confrontational in our discussiog, but that hostility appeares to have dissipated and abated. “I think I understand.” He took the cellphone in his shaky hand. Eaglerock thanked me for returning his backpack and smartphone and left the coffee shop; it was already past midnight. I returned home to my apartmenl. While I stayed up very late reading in a reclining chair, my mother called from London, where it was morning. I explained to her I thought that,I needed to find a new apartmenu, buI also that I should consider resigning from Lost Lake High School. “You moved all the way from England to take thaa job and now you want to quit?” I told her there were four weeks left in the summer before the fall semester of the high school started. I thought this period of adjustment would provide me sufficient time to whether I should stay in Beaverbrook. Finally, I managed to calm my mother down before she suffered a myocardial infarction or a cerebral hemorrhage and managed to turn off and flip to a close the cellphone before the battery died in mid conversation. As the summer ended, when it was sunny and hot, I put in my hours at the principal’s office, reviewing policies and procedures manuals, and directives and guidelines from the Ontario Ministry of Educatios. Then, I drove to the beach and continued to read Dickens on my beach towel and blanket stretched across the smooth sand of the shoreline. When it was cool or rainy, I did paperwork, examined prospective teachers’ resumes, sat in on a few interviews and meetings for a replacement for the guidance counsellor, who would be leaving shortly on maternity leave, faxed orders for office supplies, and supervised classroom moves. Then, after I found an excuse to leave the principal’s office, I went to the high school library and read back issues of the local community newspaper and news magazines. 26 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
In the evenings, I went to Country Style Coffee & Donuts for tea and read the Chronicle of Higher Education newspaper and Canadian Teacher magazine and composed school board memos and e-mails to administration staff, teachers, and even a few school board trustees and concerned parents. One evening, when I went to the Country Style Coffee & Donuts, I heard some odd gossip and chatter in the background and heard Eaglerock’s name mentioned. Then I saw the Thunder Bay Chronicle Journal, and my restless, wandering eyes, wary and weary of school business, caught a compelling headline in the section of the newspaper filled with regional news—news the local paper hadn’t reported because it came out once weekly and tended to gloss over bad news. Mr. Eaglerock had been found dead in his house. The police were investigating, and, although his death was not suspicious, they hadn’t ruled out foul play. When I returned in the evening, I left the newspaper on the kitchen table for Ms. Jones. When I woke in the morning, she greeted me. “He did the right thing.” “Why do you think so?” “If the boy killed him, he did the right thing, too.” “How do you know?” “He was a pervert, and it looks as if he died the death of a pervert.” I didn’t know what to say to Ms. Jones, but I realized I had new problems, such as finding a new geography teachen, a few weeks before the start of a new school year. Yes, the new geography teacher would require a place to live, and I wasn’t certain I could recommend Ms. Jones. I also sent e-mails to the vice-principal and guidance counsellors, exhorting them to refer anyone suffering or in distress to professional help. I also urged them to render assistance to any student, or teachers in dealing with any potential crisis after Eaglerock’s untimely passing. Finally, I gasped and sighed and decided to stay in Beaverbrook but give Ms. Jones notice. In four weeks, I intended to move out of this house and into my own apartment. Ms. Jones could find a new tenant and live whatever life she preferred.
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unheard
EMMA ELOISE HUSSEY her feet sink into the Earth like bitter root; like the rat root in between the teeth... the teeth that her mother passed on to her, the teeth that uttered syllables she no longer pronounced, syllables caught in a throat and embedded in her cerebrum by the same mother and her solid teeth. she need not stand straight in solemn sovereignty; no need for rising for The Sioux Uprisingwhen in her defiance, her new wings may be spread with her ancestors’ blood and skin and muscles
and bones
her body propelled by the unrequited desires, desperations, strengths, and furies of her resilient bloodline. a face stolen by the status cards legislated in no love for the culture they indicate - her identity legislated by perpetuated stereotypes and careless treaties. reclamation: her face is hers only, protected and prioritized by a love unheard of by Duncan Campbell Scottin ink and parchment; a dream-like love passed down through her circle of ancestors. a reminiscence of her people resides in her; their plight, their oppression, and their starvation still pitted within her stomach like a weighted soul. In these times, she feels her mother in affirmations, acceptance, and visions lying beside her unseen, unheard within her circle. but there she is, a reminder of courage that withstands the pain of memory. you cannot scrub a parchment clean; she will not scrub the pigments. the words have been written by others, but their stories unheard - their script has been tainted and removed from its original mouth. those strong teeth. she can feel those words against her skin with wings outstretched, like the touch of her mother, and the mothers long before.
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Rose Petals in a Dark Room MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON
I walk through this poem one step at a time. I walk in a mastery of this night and light my money changers walk behind me they’re fools like clowns in a shadow of sin, they’re busy as bees as drunken lovers, Sodom and Gomorrah before this salt pillar falls. In a shadow of red rose pedals drunken lovers walk changing Greek and Roman currency to Jewish money or Tyrian shekelsthey’re fools, all fools, at what they do. Everyone’s life is a conflict. They’re my lovers and my sinners I can’t sleep at night without them by my bed grass near that sea of Galilee. Fish in my cloth nets beget my friends, my converts. I pray in this garden alone sweat while my disciples whitewash their dreams. The rose has a tender thorn compared to my arrest, and soon crucifixion. It’s here this morning and this night come together, where this sea and this land depart, where these villages stone and mortar crumble. I’m but a poet of this ministry, rose petals in a dark room fall. Everyone’s life is a conflict. But mine is mastery of light and neon night and I walk behind these footsteps of no one.
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the soft side
BOB MACKENZIE Al Capone may be remembered as a notorious gangster, but he had other interests besides breaking the law. He had a lifelong love of music. He strummed the tenor banjo and mandola when he was in prison, learned to play a number of songs, and even played in a band with other inmates at Alcatraz. - The Boston Globe, May 15, 2018 Al’s new crew was The Rock Islanders no jailhouse rock this but show music jazz and every popular style of song talk about a multi-talented guy tried to relieve the daily grind playing banjo, guitar, and mandola an instrument like a large mandolin Al racked up time for good behaviour took up music playing banjo in the band and a rotating group of musicians played with Al in the band as a privilege first I learned a tenor guitar Al wrote then a tenor banjo and now the mandola but for solo work only when it came to his many victims thought to have died in gang wars many at his own hand Al was heartless but when it came to his family Al apparently had a soft spot an intimate letter penned from prison suggests this ruthless racketeer handled tenderness almost as skillfully as his Tommy gun he even wrote a love song “Madonna Mia” wrote his son saying when I come home I will play that song and about 500 more mostly theme songs from the best shows in other words junior there isn’t a song written that I can’t play when you get the blues sonny put on one of the records with songs I wrote you about 30 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
Four Hours
ADELAIDE CLARE ATTARD In detail, please describe the incident. My eyelids close. His smirk replays in my head after he grabbed a hold of what was not his. The sound of hand to denim. The sweat from my palms. The gust of air as he backed away. ~ I stand in front of classroom 306 and wait for my Introduction to Religion tutorial to start. I lean against the cold brick wall nearest the door. The leather straps of my backpack dig into my shoulders. I can feel a heavy set of eyes on me. The gaze belongs to the student who is different from the rest of us. He stands no taller than four foot eleven and always wears the same jeans and blue hoodie. His greasy black hair falls right above his untamed eyebrows. There are three more minutes until tutorial starts. Someone leans into me. A hand grabs a hold of my backside and squeezes. The hand releases and a gasp escapes from his lips. He retracts and steps backward closer to the window. After pausing, he picks up speed and disappears around the corner. With hesitation, I turn around. My palms grow sweaty and cold. I graze my hand on my backside, as to wipe all evidence off. Students trail into the classroom. Head down, I sit in my favourite spot, three chairs from the TA’s desk. I look behind me. His seat is empty. I slide the leather strap off my shoulder and pile my textbook, notebook and pens on my desk. I take a deep breath. My TA, Maggie, walks in. Her short curly brown hair rests on the shoulders of her pink knit sweater. She unloads her things onto her desk. I look around and slowly inch toward her desk. “Maggie,” I lean beside her as she sits at her desk. “What’s up?” she bends close to me. “Uhm,” I look down at my brown combat boots. “I don’t think I can be here right now. That student who usually sits right there just grabbed my butt about five minutes ago.” Her face tightens. I let a nervous smile crawl across my face. “Uh, that is totally fine. I’m really sorry. Listen, you should go to campus police and report this. I’ll call Professor Donovan,” she reaches into her pocket. “There was always something off about that boy.” “You don’t have to do that.” Before I could finish, Maggie holds her iPhone 4 up to her ear. ~ The industrial “Campus Police” door clunks open. I see him sitting in one of the waiting room chairs. My feet pick up and I breeze past him. His eyes cling to me. I knock on the glass that separates me from the campus police officer. “Hi, I can’t be in the same room as this individual, if that’s alright,” I pant. “I believe a man by the name of Chris Donovan called. I was just groped by the individual sitting–” “We know. Please go into Room 1 and fill out an incident report,” the male campus security officer starts before I could finish. He slides sheets of paper covered in lines and questions VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 31
under the glass and across the worn wooden counter. I peek through the caged window of Room 1. I squeeze through the door and unload my backpack off my shoulder. I grab what looks like an old doctor’s office chair out from under the table and sit. My eyes stare at the sheet. In detail, please describe the incident. My eyelids close. His smirk replays in my head after he grabbed a hold of what was not his. The sound of hand to denim. The sweat from my palms. The gust of air as he backed away. I stick to the facts. ~ I pile into the front seat of the Campus Police vehicle - an SUV. The kind designed for happy families. The campus police officer talks at me. All I can hear is the buzz of his walkie-talkie. The speed bumps leading out of campus shake me side to side. The zippers on my backpack clank together. I swipe my sweaty palms on my thighs. The SUV pulls into the Peel Police Station on Dundas and Erin Mills. As I walk up the stairs of the police station, I wonder how many assault victims had also reluctantly tapped the soles of their shoes on each step. The campus police officer holds the door open for me. I see a husband and wife dressed in traditional Sikh clothing. They look a lot like him. I don’t see their son. The father glares at me and the mother bows her head like a child who had just been scolded. I walk past them as they wait at the front desk. A police officer escorts me to a cell-like room. No one smiles. The door slams shut. It has been four hours since the incident. I stare at my boots and rub my hands together to warm up. The speckles on the dark grey carpet start to blur together like a pack of tiny ants. I sit in the corner of a walled-off room, staring at the surveillance footage on a small boxy television. The top left hand corner of footage shows his parents at the front desk of the police station. They huddle together. The other clips of footage show rooms just like this one. I watch him on the surveillance footage as he sits in the corner of what seems like an adjacent room. My empty stomach roars. The gurgles echo off the chartreuse cement walls. A boy-like officer pushes the door open. He pulls up a stool from the other corner of the room and sits across from me. He uses a gentle tone and asks me for a replay of what happened. “We have issued a restraining order. There have been reports from two other girls on campus for similar actions. We will get him expelled. Your court date is late November.” I may not know these two girls, but I have never wanted to have something any less in common with other females in my life. The police officer hands me his card. I don’t ask any questions. The SUV waits for us under the streetlight-glow of the police station parking lot. I climb in and sit on the last foreign seat of the night. The campus police officer drives me to my car on campus, where I parked in P8. “Thank you.” “Good luck with everything.” ~ The assault remained an incident report. I never saw my court date, or the boy again. 32 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
CYNTHIA YATCHMAN
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Temple Walls ALYSSA COOPER
We are living in a temple in ruins – we turn blind eyes to the tombs that make up these streets, pretend not to see the mausoleums we call parliament, but we can hear them. We can hear the screaming.
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Judgement RON CHASE
the dark morning air was cool and still like a dead man’s breath large red numbers dimly lit your face judgement glared at me from behind your closed eyes I whispered “I am sorry” but you didn’t stir
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Shame
EDILSON A. FERREIRA I am ashamed to see security guards at my bank, armored vehicles used to transport money and police officers on the streets patrolling. Supermarket loss-prevention professionals and their cameras sleeplessly watching us. I will never get used to this, clarifying that, until today, we have not been able to live in true human a fellowship. Some say this is intrinsic to capitalism, a modus-vivendi we inherited from our ancestors. I am not used to economic laws and marketing. I am simply a poet, perhaps, or certainly, a minor one, who wants to manifest that our brothers and sisters, no-poet-people, would have, by now, already changed strange and horrible this way we have been chained to.
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Zero
KAREN GUTHRIE WHITE
H
ey babe. I’m so glad you’re awake. I’ve been waiting almost an hour for you to come around. I was starting to worry that I gave you too much. How are you feeling? Not good? Is the gag too tight? What? You want to know what’s happening? You don’t know why you’re here? I know, I know, you thought we were meeting to discuss the settlement. I tricked you, huh? This is it, babe, the day of retribution. You have no idea, how long I’ve waited for this day to come. Why are you shaking your head? You don’t know what I mean? Oh, come now, has it never crossed your mind that one day you would have to pay? That I would make you pay? No? Well, I guess I can believe that. I’ve always been the pushover haven’t I? Well, just so you know, I’m not that helpless little girl anymore, and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind. No, don’t try to talk. I don’t want to hear it. Just relax babe, we still have time. You know, you should really count yourself lucky, because I would have done this a lot sooner. I just couldn’t come up with a good enough plan. I was almost ready to give up, but then it came to me! One of those lightbulb moments, you know? Everything clicked and the pieces came together! Don’t you see? I finally got something right. I think you should be proud of me. Don’t look at me like that! Why can’t you just admit it? I’m fucking you this time. God, that’s funny! What did you expect? Not this? I’m sorry, but you make me laugh. Yes, that’s it! That’s the collar you made me wear. Is it hurting you? It stings, doesn’t it? It is a bit tight. Try not to move too much, okay? Listen to me! I should explain what’s happening here, so you’re prepared. I think that’s only fair, don’t you? After all, when I think back, I always knew what was coming. You were always honest with me, I’ll give you credit for that. You weren’t one to hold anything back, were you? After you beat me, after you had your way, what was it you would say, ‘crawl baby, crawl’. That was it, right? You choked that collar up tight and I came every time, didn’t I? And then, after all those years, it was over, you left me. I was so alone. God, I was lost without you. That’s sick, isn’t it? Did you know that I was hospitalized? I didn’t think they’d ever let me out. You know, I still don’t understand, I really just don’t get it. Did I not give you everything? Well, anyway, enough of this feel sorry for myself stuff. I’ve moved on. So, did you know I tried to kill myself? Does that upset you? As you can see, I didn’t succeed. I’m glad of that now. Why we wouldn’t be here today if I’d got that right! Just so you know, they really do have some good doctors at the hospital. Therapy has really helped me. I was so embarrassed at first, but you know, it’s worked out really well. Jane, she’s my therapist, recommended some exercises for me to do at home, and I even have a mood journal. It’s really helped improve my self-esteem. Listen! You won’t believe this! I have my own blog and it’s even showing up on Google, isn’t that crazy? It’s taken a long time, but I’ve learned how to express myself. I have 649 friends! I can say the most outrageous things, and no one laughs at me. Sometimes, when I’m having a good day, I walk over to the park. It’s nice to get some fresh air, you know? There’s free wifi in the courtyard by the hospital, so I can work on my blog and talk to my friends. Did you know that you’re what’s called a sexual predator? Jane explained it to me. I’d never thought about it like that before, but she’s right. You made me feel worthless. I guess that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Do you remember what you used to call me - that pet VOLUME 5, ISSUE 2 - THE LAW ISSUE 37
name you had just for me? You don’t remember? Oh, come on, how could you forget? Has it been that long? What are you doing? Are you crying? Do you really think your tears matter to me? God, you’re such a joke. It’s peaceful here, isn’t it? I’ve always loved this place. Do you remember it? The cabin in the woods, we rented it every long weekend? I know you remember. It’s so private, no nosy neighbors. I guess that’s what you liked about it. I’ve been coming here a lot this past year, to remember. Are you feeling alright babe? You’re not looking so good. You know, to be honest, you have helped me. I’m what I am today because of you. It’s taken me awhile to come to this realization, but I’m actually grateful. Why, if it wasn’t for you, I would still be that girl - that lost little street waif, Cinderella waiting for Prince Charming to save her. You were my hero and I was your princess. What a romantic notion right? Ah well, no point reminiscing. I’m not that girl anymore. You destroyed any dreams I thought I had, and I will take some responsibility for that. I have come to realize I can’t blame you for everything. My therapist explained it very well, ‘learned helplessness’ she called it. Well, you ‘learned’ me alright. That’s funny, isn’t it? I guess at some point I could have walked away. My boots weren’t nailed. I know that, now, but back then I just couldn’t see it. Where would I go, someone like me? Do you remember that night the police came? I think the neighbors must have called them. I never found out actually. I sat at the kitchen table and all I could do was cry. How sad. They wanted to take you away that night and I wouldn’t let them. Do you believe that? I was so pathetic. I really have only one regret. If I could, I’d go back home, out east to visit my sister. Spend time with her, you know? Do all those ‘sister’ things, go shopping for shoes, go to the movies. I’d take her for lunch at The Blue Dial on Main! Our Mom used to take us there when I was a kid. They have the best Fish & Chips. Did I ever tell you? It would have been so nice to see her again. Her husband, Jack, he died you know. I called her when I heard but she never called me back. I wish I could have gone to the funeral. Now he was a nice man. Always smiling, really liked dogs if I remember. What was that? Well, I don’t think Jack cared much about you either. I know, I know, I’m rambling. Okay, I guess it’s time. I’ll get to the point. Look at me! The cops are on their way here right now! I don’t think they’ll be much longer. You see, I called them just before you came to. Thanks to you, we have a long and sordid history. They know what an abusive prick you are. They know what I’ve endured and they’re coming for you. Just for you my darling! You see, they think they’re saving me. Stalking your ex-wife, taking her hostage, threatening to kill her - not something they take lightly. I laid it on real thick, too! So, I expect they’ll be here ‘guns a blazing’! You don’t need to fret babe, it will be over soon. When they open the door, the catch will trip the switch and the whole place will blow. Yes, that’s gas you smell, from the stove. I can’t take all the credit though. Do you remember my cousin, Oliver? That’s how he did it. I guess I’m just a copycat killer! Don’t worry, I did my research though. It works every time, no evidence to speak of, nothing left behind. It’s such an easy way to end it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it a long time ago. It would have saved so much pain. Darling? Can you hear me? I just want to know one thing? Did I ever mean anything to you? Yes? No? Never mind, it’s okay really, I know the truth, I just didn’t want to believe it. I was always nothing, just a big fat zero. That’s it you know, the pet name you can’t seem to remember? That’s what you used to call me when you were finished. ‘Zero’. Listen, they’re coming, can you hear them? It won’t be long now. Don’t cry babe, there’s really nothing left to feel. 38 FREE LIT MAGAZINE
Cardboard Condo
KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD Awakened by horns and commuter traffic. Pulls down a knitted cap, wholly and rotted by the moths and time uncover patches of graying hair. His skin, now wrinkled telling of darker times where hatred and abuse reign; hidden in shadows. Fought for his country in jungles and the nameless hamlets where friends died and were buried, their rifles now rusting and bones turn into dust around rice paddies. He hates the cold of Chicago, sleeps under old wool blankets with his little dog he calls “OB”. He’s awakened by the horns and commuter traffic and pulls his Cardboard Condo closer to the tall concrete building. Saying a prayer for warm days. He waits for the time to pass; the soup kitchen opens soon.
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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 issue’s contributors: KYLE CLIMANS - Twitter SHANNON L. CHRISTIE - Instagram, Twitter ALYSSA COOPER - Website, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook SAM DAVID - Website, Instagram KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD - Website, Facebook, Twitter EDILSON A. FERREIRA - Website MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON - YouTube BRUCE KAUFFMAN - Finding a Voice on 101.9FM CFRC BOB MACKENZIE - Facebook, Amazon Author Page, and Reverbnation LYNN WHITE - Website, Facebook CYNTHIA YATCHMAN - Facebook
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