Goose: An Annual Review of Short Fiction 2014-2015 by Goose Fiction

GOOSE An Annual Review of Short Fiction

Volume 4 // Sping 2015 Produced at Victoria College in the University of Toronto

CONTENTS

Letter from the Editors The Zone Simon Le Bon Will Save Us The Great Snake Man Fly on The Wall The Incomprehensible Here Safety In Numbers Progress

Leanne Simpson Helen Morris Kate Latimer NatashaRmoutar Chris Gilmore Alexandra Jones Victoria Beales

7 15 23 26 30 40 49

Contributors

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Dear Readers, I’m often asked what sets Goose apart from the ever-expanding list of student-run literary journals at the University of Toronto. The immediate answer, of course, is that we’re Victoria College’s only journal focused solely on short fiction; that we are dedicated to the particular nuances of the short story as a creative medium through which writers express themselves and the world around them. Our goal is to provide students with an outlet through which they can explore and focus on this unique craft, and in the four years since Goose was founded, we hope we’ve done exactly that. That’s the immediate answer. The deeper answer is that Goose is set apart from all other literary journals in the same way that this particular issue is set apart from those before it, the same way that each short story in this journal is set apart from all of the others: every piece of literature is a unique reflection of the writer who created it, set apart from all pieces that have come before it and all that will come after. The 2014-2015 issue of Goose could not be a better example of this, with stories ranging

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from the familiar seats of a subway car (“Safety in Numbers”) to the faraway land of the Uganda Railway (“The Great Snake Man”); stories about everything from jealousy over a partner’s past lovers (“Progress”) to falling in love for the very first time (“Simon le Bon Will Save Us”). Every writer has a unique story to tell, and this year’s issue of Goose is a strong reflection of that fact. With that being said, I am proud to present the 2014-2015 issue of Goose: An Annual Review of Short Fiction. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the creative efforts of the University of Toronto community. I’d like to thank each and every student who submitted work to this year’s journal, and to congratulate the seven gifted writers whose stories were ultimately chosen for publication. Victoria College is renowned for its literary community, and the stories we received this year prove that this reputation is well-deserved. I’d also like to thank the hard work and dedication of the Editorial and Executive Boards, without whom this journal would not have been possible. In particular, I’m excited to be able to include accompanying illustrations in our journal for the first time: a special thank you to Genevieve Smith and Wenting Li for their efforts in producing so much wonderful work in such little time. Finally, a thank you to Victoria College and VUSAC for providing us with the resources with which to print this journal. I’m so proud to be a member of a college that focuses so much of its efforts on the creative arts, and I’m glad to have been a part of the creative writing community at Victoria College this year. Happy Reading! All the best, Emily Deibert Editor-in-Chief 2014-2015

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

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THE ZONE Leanne Simpson

“I’m so excited to try this place out!” Amy squeals, her breath fogging up the window. I’m not so sure. I’m used to bars disappointing me—the substitute piano guy at the Maddy not knowing “Don’t Turn Back in Anger,” that time we went to Cake nightclub only to find out that we didn’t actually get cake, and worst of all, country bars playing fucking “Timber” like Ke$ha is anywhere near the level of Shania Twain. Real adults use real alphabetical symbols. “You ladies going out to celebrate the birthday?” asks our cabbie, a sweet Iranian man named Medhi. He actually signals before he changes lanes to the left. “Just a post-midterm girls’ night,” I say. I look at Amy, who would normally regale him with her life story, but is instead busy jabbing at the touch screen trivia game on the backside of the passenger seat. It says that every correct answer earns 10 grains of rice for the World Food Programme, but I feel like it’s just an electronic babysitter for the drunkies. “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it’s not,” I read out loud. “Isn’t that—” “DOCTOR FUCKING SEUSS!” Amy howls gleefully, punching the monitor. “I’m on my rhyming shit, son.” Medhi smiles appreciatively and I roll my eyes. Amy is the only reason I ever leave our apartment, except for school and Toonie Tuesdays. She says it’s important for

me to meet people outside of books, to which I usually reply, “Books can’t get you pregnant.” But I love Amy, and bars are considerably less painful in her company. That’s the thing about best friends—if anyone else threw a metallic miniskirt at me, I’d tell that person to fuck right off. “I do the right turn here,” Medhi informs us cheerfully. “It is less busy this way. New parties always have the line. Have you been here before?” Amy has grown tired of the rice game. “Nope, but it didn’t quite get lit up on Yelp so we’re taking a gamble. Also, my classmate’s sister said she saw Prince there this one time, being all Prince-like and stuff. You should come check it out with us!” He laughs, but politely refuses the invitation. The cab pulls up outside The Zone, and there’s hardly a line. Amy and I exchange concerned glances—no line at 11:30 pm usually means that it’s dead inside. But what the hell, it’s kind of cold and we’re already here. We tip Medhi more than we can afford and hustle across the street.

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that?” I ask quietly. “Yeah,” she says, completely unfazed, “That guy was such a douche!” “THE EARTH JUST DEVOURED HIM LIKE THE LAST PIECE OF PIZZA ON A FRIDAY NIGHT!” I whisper-shriek. “Deserved.” Amy purses her lips. “Do you think I need more gloss?” I don’t even hear her. Two scowling girls in skyscraper stilettos push past us to meet two guys at the front. “Rude,” Amy mutters. The bouncer greets the couples with a smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. Are these lovely ladies with you?” He’s using the term “lovely” a bit loosely, if you ask me. The blonde one’s smile looks like a folded-over cheese string. The brunette’s eyebrows are on a sharper angle than Mount Everest. Yeah, I’m being mean, but that’s what you get for butting the line: scathing internal insults. “Yup,” says the guy in the hipster glasses, his eyes glazed over. “Welcome to The Zone. Tonight we have our usual promotion—reasonably priced beer and cocktails. We are also offering free coat check and we will not be playing any Ke$ha, ever,” the bouncer announces.. I totally change my mind about leaving. “Sounds wonderful,” says the brunette girl in a sing-song voice. She takes two steps forward and the bouncer coughs loudly. “There is a slight problem,” he adds. “The two ladies butted in front of the rest of the line, which was a choice that I found to be impolite—even borderline douchey.” The crowd lets out a collective gasp. “Shit’s gonna get real,” someone murmurs behind us. Some girl in the line bursts into tears and scampers away. The rest of us wait with bated breath. The bouncer continues. “In light of their infraction, they will not be allowed into the club this evening. Gentlemen, you have the choice to accompany your lady friends elsewhere or enter The Zone by yourselves.”

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Beanie immediately disentangles himself from the blonde girl. “Sorry babe, looks like it’s a boys’ night tonight!” He bounds up a few steps and turns around. “You’ll be okay watching Gilmore Girls or something.” “But Gilmore Girls ended eight years ago,” she whines. Beanie smirks. “So did our relationship—am I right, Luke?” He looks to Hipster Luke for a high-five. It doesn’t happen. “Gabs wants to get some waffles, I think I might just go with her if that’s cool. You can come with, if you want.” Hipster Luke nods at the abandoned blonde, who is staring at the ground, likely re-evaluating her life decisions. Me, I’m counting backwards eight years because I want to know if that breakup was even possible. Blondie smiles gratefully, and I’m slightly worried that her face will split in two. “Can you say whipped?” Beanie laughs incredulously. “Stop being such a pussy, dude.” “Stop being such a douchebag, dude,” says the bouncer, as the ground yawns like a sleepy kitten and Beanie disappears. Hipster Luke and his girl stare at the bouncer in terror. The blonde girl just shrugs. “Honestly, this whole experience just made me more hungry.” She saunters towards the Waffle House and the others stumble after her. The line shortens quickly: “Miss, if the circumference of your earrings is nearly equal to that of your face, you have issues. No thank you and adieu.” “Why are you hiding a box of poutine in your jacket? If you’re that hungry, perhaps you would be more comfortable at the restaurant down the street. This is not a suggestion.” “I don’t know if I should reject you because of your cheap “Alberta” license or the fact that your eyebrows were drawn with a seismograph.” It’s finally our turn. I want to run away and stress-eat all of the waffles, but Amy pushes me forward. “Hello there,” says the bouncer nonchalantly. “Thank you for returning my hat. You don’t see much kindness in this city. May I see some I.D. please?” Amy has hers ready. “Uh... no problem, sir,” I mumble, fishing out my license. “Have a good night, ladies,” he beams. We begin to make our way up the stairs, but then Amy’s phone rings.

“It’s going down, I’m yelling timber—you better move, you better dance. Let’s make a night you won’t remember—I’ll be the one you won’t—” The bouncer snatches her phone from her hand and smashes it on the ground. “RUUUUUUUNNNNNN!” I screech, taking off before he can grab the lever. I’m thankful for wearing cute boots instead of heels, as my long strides take me around the corner, past the Waffle House and behind a dumpster. I peer over the edge of the dumpster, but don’t see Amy. The beat of my heart is louder than bad dubstep. I have to go back. I decide that I’d rather face a drug cartel or even those World Wildlife street fundraisers than that hellish bouncer, so I take the back alley, pressing myself against the wall, inching towards The Zone, avoiding empty beer cans and dried-up pools of vomit. I crawl beneath a dented car and scope out the rear of the bar, but don’t see anything. A cough emerges from a pile of garbage bags to my left. “Amy?” I hiss, without thinking. Her blonde head materializes from the trash. She stumbles towards me and rolls under the car, her mascara bleeding down her face. We hug each other until we can no longer breathe. “I thought he got you,” I sniffle into her shoulder. “The ground—it started rumbling in front of me, so I turned and ran through the club and crawled out the men’s bathroom window,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I forgot that Kat changed my ringtone as a joke. I skipped the gym for like four months. I didn’t think I’d make it.” I squeeze her again, thankful that she did. “Good thing you lost him in the crowd, God knows what else they—” “There’s nothing there.” I let go for a second and hit my head on the underside of the car. Amy continues, the words spilling from her mouth. “The Douchebag-Free Zone is just an empty room with no music. There’s nothing inside. Nothing.” Our eyes widen as careful footsteps draw closer to our hiding spot, too quiet to be anything but ominous. A strangled, tinny melody drifts towards us, as we breathlessly cling to each other. “It’s going down, I’m yelling timber...”

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it moved as a single, rigid entity. If they ever discover alien life, it will look like this. She reached out a hand shrouded in a lace fingerless glove, with black varnished nails bitten to a jagged quick. ‘Yeah. Alright,’ she said. And took the biggest one. And sucked it. Hot oil, hot vinegar, hot salt crystals. Then she bit it. The end turned the glacé cherry colour of her bin end lipstick. Potatoes, glycerine, and fat: friendships are built on this. After that, we were inseparable. By February, Kraftwerk was top of the charts with ‘The Model’ and we were walking about spoon-faced and expressionless. We shared ‘Smash Hits’, flying saucers that glued to the roof of our mouths, and make-up tips. My attempts with eyeliner looked like a dying fly had wandered my lower eyelid concussed, before expiring somewhere off towards my temple. We sprayed each other liberally with Opium. Our Doc Martens were scuffed. We desperately wanted to entrance boys and simultaneously eradicate them entirely from our lives. Fat, male politicians with quivering jowls, greedy beady eyes, lying mouths puckered like a cat’s arse, and pudgy grasping fingers set about destroying our town’s fishing industry. By March, the soundtrack of our daily lives was a patchwork of Haircut 100, Depeche Mode, Adam and the Ants, and ABC. But most of all, Duran Duran. Sheila was in love with Nick Rhodes. His coifed hair, immaculate suits and a face that looked like it had been sculpted by a good pull with a plunger to the chops. But I was all about Simon. Like a human Labrador, he bounced around. Chubby cheeks and cupid bow lips. A bandana tied round his head like he’d bumped it. His too-tight trousers. I kissed the shiny Smash Hits poster where the staples had unfortunately gone through something that must have been the location of his left testicle. The late spring and early summer months sped quickly by in a rapid staccato. April was all about Japan and we sucked our cheeks in and combed Sun-In through our hair. May was Banarama and Fun Boy Three and our fringe length and density became a danger to our personal safety. June was ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’. Very clearly none of the Duran boys were good in the heat. You don’t get much above tepid in Birmingham. Then July. July was all about Yazoo’s ‘Don’t go’ and we raided our mum’s wardrobes for belts and scarves and died our hair conker red like Alison. We were scathing of Shakin Stevens, The Nolans, The

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World Cup squad and Chas ‘n’ Dave. We wanted men with blusher on their cheeks, not beards. Then came school holidays. I was so certain that a lush covering of body glitter was a daily essential there was a permanent tidemark round the bath. ‘Come on Eileen’ was holding no. 1 and I wore dungarees chaotically and a pork pie hat pushed back. We spent the beautiful weather inside, painting our fingernails with cheap nail varnish that never fully dried—shoplifted from the local chemist. Talking about nothing, but talking nonstop. We practised core life skills: swearing, snogging, and pouting. And obsessed over split ends. Inside, we worried about nuclear war. And the fact that our home was unreachable from school, if the four-minute warning went. September. ‘Eye of the Tiger’ kept ‘Save a Prayer’ off the no. 1 spot and we were apoplectic. We bunked off school and went on anti-apartheid demos, following the group of male Scottish students closely because of their delicious and strange accents. They steered clear of these too-young girls, dressed like magpies, with hunger and naivety writ large in their faces. October. The sea started to swell and fret as the season cusped and turned. Culture Club’s ‘Do you really want to hurt me’ hurtled headlong into the charts. Adults puzzled over Boy George. A charity shop geisha. His sex. His charisma. His slightly bottom heavy dancing. We plaited our hair into hundreds of tiny braids. November, and the autumnal storms held the town in their grip. A violent husband relentlessly battering a resigned wife who has no spirit left. Wham ricocheted their way into our cassette players with ‘Young Guns (go for it)’, a cocky, confident anthem from the very opening curled lipped snarl of “hey sucker.” We ate space dust and talked about periods. Then it was December. ‘Rio’ was in the top ten. The winter had been a long and depressed one. We were growing bored of our half-child, half-adult lives. One foot in each, but no strong foothold in either. I don’t know whose idea it was to take the boat. We’d bought a litre bottle of Spar sweet cider and drunk about half. The boat was bobbing just at the bottom of the harbour wall, as we sat dangling our patterned tights clad legs over the edge. It was a dank dull evening with an intermittent restless, blustery wind. The steps next to me led down to where the boat

was nestling. And all I could think about was Simon on the prow of that Rio boat in his yellow gold suit. Like a god. Maybe that’s why we weren’t afraid. Or maybe it was the sharp slice of the alcohol that molded our malleable brains and made us rosy faced and overly bold. So, me and Sheila, we hobbled down those steps in our lace and scarves and tinkling cheap silver jewellery. Cackling like starlings. Singing. ‘Moving on the floor now babe you’re a bird of paradise Cherry ice cream smile I suppose it’s very nice….’ Stretching our skinny legs out to the boat. Half-falling, half-jumping on, a giggling heap of limbs. Trying to stand and wobbling like newborn foals, laughing so much we held our stomachs in pain. ‘With a step to your left and a flick to the right you catch that mirror way out west You know you’re something special and you look like you’re the best…..” Standing now. Facing each other. Legs splayed wide. Catching our balance. Rocking the boat on purpose. Raising our arms to the heavens and bellowing the chorus, breathless and flat: “Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand Just like that river twisting through a dusty land And when she shines she really shows you all she can Oh Rio, Rio dance across the Rio Grande” It must have been at about this point that the mooring rope loosened and slipped, like a sea serpent, quietly out of its tight-held sea wall ring and into the water. Neither of us noticed it go. We were still singing. “I’ve seen you on the beach and I’ve seen you on TV Two of a billion stars it means so much to me Like a birthday or a pretty view But then I’m sure that you know it’s just for you….” Sheila bent down unsteadily and picked the bottle of cider off of the bottom of the boat. She chugged a good wodge down and passed it over. I started the next verse, my lips still wet and fizzing. “Hey now woo look at that did she nearly run you down At the end of the drive the lawmen arrive You make me feel alive, alive alive I’ll take my chance cause luck is on my side or some-

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thing I know what you’re thinking I tell you something I know what you’re thinking,” Sheila was doing her ‘Nick playing the keyboards’ impression, which involved moving her fingers but not a single facial muscle. We both began the chorus at the top of our lungs:

“Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand,”

but I came to a sudden halt while Sheila quavered on, “Just like that river twists across a dusty land. Come on Jude. Sing it!” But I had noticed that we were drifting out across the small harbour, the walls receding into the dark and the mist. Sheila followed my gaze and muttered a very quiet, “Fuck.” Suddenly, we were both staggering wildly about, looking under the seats for oars. For anything. The boat was empty aside from the bottle. And us.

“HELP!” yelled Sheila. “HELP!”

I stood. The harbour entrance loomed wide as the current tugged and pulled us. The tide was going out. We were being gently steered out of safety and into the open sea. “SIMON!” I yelled. “SIMON, WE NEED YOU!” “What the fuck are you shouting Simon for?” screamed Sheila, her face twisted in despair. “Simon Le Bon will save us,” I said. And with that we popped out through the narrow wall entrance and the first wave hit, just as if someone was emptying an ice cold bucket of salty water over us. Instinctively we threw ourselves at each other. Holding each other tight. Crying. We were drenched and shivering within seconds. Our hair plastered against our rapidly cooling skin. The cold cutting through our flimsy Topshop jackets. Sheila started to sing in a whisper. Our violent shaking adding a tremolo to our voices: “Her name is Rio she don’t need to understand And I might find her if I’m looking like I can Oh Rio, Rio hear them shout across the land From mountains in the north down to the Rio Grande Do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do” We were rocking now, singing, “Do do do do do do. Do do do do do do,” over and over like a lullaby. We must have been on our hundredth ‘do’ when a light hit us. “Jesus Christ, it’s the lord!” yelled Sheila. Her half-hidden Catholicism of sin and confession splitting open from its seams. “It’s the fucking lifeboat” I shouted above the noise. And the large orange motorboat bumped alongside its outboard engines spitting. Hands reached across and lifted us. We crouched blanketed and silent, riding back to shore with the small rowing boat bobbing like a balloon on a string behind. Someone had seen us just as we popped out through the harbour entrance. Simon Gooding, the butcher’s son. He’d heard someone yelling ‘Simon’ and gone to look. He’d heard me yelling ‘Simon’. We were saved. ‘Le Bon’ is French for ‘good’ I said to Sheila, later. I told you. I told you Simon Le Bon would save us.

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THE GREAT SNAKE MAN

Kate Latimer

*The Uganda Railway connects the interiors of Kenya and Uganda with the Indian Ocean in Mombasa. They call it the Lunatic Express. At one point, a little house stood next to it. After school they used to pull me behind the old shed at the edge of the yard and whisper stories in my ear. They used to tell me the one about the Great Snake because they liked watching me cry. He comes at night, they would say, slithering through the tall grass so fast and so quiet he can creep up on the singing crickets. He sleeps all day in the sun, growing warmer and warmer and as he heats up he gets bigger and bigger. By sundown he is this big— and they would stand together and hold their arms out and I could see how big the snake was. He’s a mean snake, they would say. He likes little girls, they would say. His fangs are like knives. They told me that if I looked out my window at night I could probably see those fangs glinting in the moonlight. Some nights I would look out and I was sure I could see something glisten in the grass, just catching the light from the lantern on our porch, and I would know he was out there. And then the kids, once they had finished telling me the story, would push me into this ditch and they would run off laughing and I would slowly pull myself up and out of the hole. I would look around searching, even though I knew the Great Snake only came out at night. I was still afraid he might appear. And then I would run, my legs never quite fast enough, because the faster I ran the closer he got to catching up with me. I wouldn’t turn around until I had slammed the front door, gasping

for breath and brushing the tears off my face. Sometimes I used to stand in front of our house and stare out at the train tracks, winding along as far as I could see. The tracks were so close to us, that the glass in our windows would have rattled had a train ever come past, roaring along, barely slowing as the great trees dispersed into little houses, and barking dogs, and screaming babies. My father would come home covered in dust and grease, and I would ask when the tracks would be ready for a train, and he would say soon, and then he would sit in his chair and stare out the window for a little while until my mother called him for dinner. Mary, he used to say, when we finish those tracks, this will be our country. There will be nowhere we can’t go. Sometimes after dinner my father would make a little fire in our front yard, with a bucket of water and rocks carefully piled in a circle to stop the fire from spreading. Sometimes we would go months without a drop of rain. It would pour until you thought you’d never see the sky again and then all of a sudden it would stop and the ground would dry up and the sun would beat down all day. But at night it was cool and I would wrap myself up in a blanket and we’d go outside and lie on our backs. My father would point at stars and I would look up and think how big the sky was and how little we were. One night, as we were lying on our backs, the fire crackling in the dry air, I heard a rustle in the grass. I stopped breathing and listened again. There it was, the slow slithering sound of something massive moving through the tall grass, getting closer and closer. I turned my head and looked, but I couldn’t see anything. My hands gripped the dirt beneath me and I could feel my blood pumping through my whole body so hard I was sure I was pulsing up off the ground. I strained to see and then I went cold. There in the darkness I saw something glinting orange in the light of the fire. DO NOT MOVE. My father was standing over me staring at the snake. I realized I had been whimpering. Do not move, he repeated in a deadly whisper. My mother gasped and grabbed my little brother into her arms. My father backed away slowly and then he disappeared. I closed my eyes and began to count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight- don’t move my love, stay exactly as you are- ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. I heard

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a blast, deafening, right next to my ear. I waited for pain but none came. I slowly opened my eyes to see my father holding the Great Snake in his hands, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. I got up and ran to my mother- I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to look at it. I was already familiar with that snake, hiding just out of my vision in the tall grass. Waiting and watching. Now the snakeskin is pinned over our door. Sometimes it rustles a little in the wind and if I look at it from the side I can see the snake come to life and drop to the floor. But then I shake my head and look again and there it is, thin and translucent and longer than you would have thought possible. Now after school I pull the little kids behind the old shed at the end of the yard and I whisper stories in their ear. I tell them all about the Great Snake Man and when I finish their eyes are wide and they walk home slowly, following the train tracks, and I watch them getting smaller and smaller until I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see them any more.

FLY ON THE WALL Natasha Ramoutar

It was such a special occasion that I had donned my Ghostbusters costume. The logo glistened menacingly as I edged forward. Although my proton pack hung loosely on my back, ready to be used at the sight of any paranormal disturbance, I brandished a new weapon. My grip tightened around the blue handle as I had my target in sight. We locked gazes, knowing only one of us could leave this room victorious. I raised my weapon, and using all my might SPLAT. I inspected the damage to find a clean hit. The fly’s body was splayed across the wall. I had been at it all morning and I was exhausted. It was my own fault though. This would have never happened if I had just been more careful. My uncle brought over a bushel of kale and I, ignorant of the menacing fly colony within, had left it in the sink. We now had an infestatiton of fruit flies that I was determined to eliminate. Although my other fly traps had caught many of the flies, their corpses stuck against the sticky paper, there were some flies that were smarter. They avoided the traps by the sink, flying by the bread bin or the kitchen table. These were the ones that I had to hunt down and kill. I was in the midst of wiping up the corpses when I saw him. He first flew around my head, near my ears with his infuriating buzz, and then across from my glasses in direct view. With my fly swatter out of range, I grabbed a newspaper. “I’ll kill you,” I whispered, peering around trying to find him. Soon all I could hear was my own breathing as if he had disappeared. Then, the buzzing started again, this time at the table. I raised my

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newspaper as I had with my fly swatter, armed and ready to kill. The fly rose up on two feet, its arms outstretched. “I bzzzzz-eseech you, bzzz-ipedal wielder of papers and other such weapons-” I eyed the fly suspiciously, lowering my newspaper. What was this guy up to? “To stop the violence and bzzz-loodshed that you give unto us, the humble fly colony.” “Humble?!” I flared my nostrils. “Yeah I’m sure you’re humble flying on our apples and bananas, flying in our eyes and up our noses and attacking us while we eat. Humble, yeah right.”

“Please human, come to my people.” Against my better judgment, I followed the fly as he lead me to the sticky fly trap. “Here,” he announced, gesturing towards two flies who had managed to stick themselves together on the paper, “are Buzzelda and Buzzster. Buzzelda was the first to be trapped. Buzzster tried to save her but landed into the trap as well. They were planning on starting a family.” The fly wiped a gelatinous tear from its bulging eye. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You guys

only live like three days anyway.” “Three days of full, fruitful life.” The fly walked over to the other side of the trap. “This is Buzzford. Buzzford was the strongest and bzzz-est wrestler of all of us. His father always told him to use his head to get out of tough problems. Alas, it failed to work this time.” I looked at Buzzford. He was stuck like most flies with his feet, but he was leaning forward. His head was stuck to the paper, eyes wide and bulging like all the others. The fly herald began to wipe his eyes again. “I swear to God if you shed anymore tears I’ll -” “And lastly,” said the fly, ignoring my outburst and gesturing to the top of the paper, “is Sir Buzzelot du Ciel.” The fly he was pointing to had gotten itself stuck at the very top, where the trap connected to the cupboard. “He was the bzzz-ravest knight of all. Sir Buzzelot offered to take down the trap. He knew it was a fruitless mission, that it couldn’t be done. Sir Buzzelot gave us something greater, something that we all needed - he gave us hope.” The fly lowered itself onto all fours, although I couldn’t tell if it was a bow or just his usual stance. “Please human, I bzzzeseech you! Spare our people! We are just lowly small creatures!” I looked into the fly’s multidimensional eyes, starting to feel bad. They had endured so much pain and bloodshed at our hands. Maybe we could allocate a portion of fruits for them. Maybe we could share the space, keep them contained to one area. Maybe we could be two species living in harmony. SPLAT. My sister stood triumphant over her vanquished prey. “That was close! You almost missed him!” I looked at the fly, a mangled corpse oozing black slime. She was right - I almost missed him.

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He mutters sweet nothings as he feels up the label. Then his fingers stop. Something must be wrong with the vintage. “Not quite my type,” he mumbles, dumping the bottle in the rack. He picks up another. “Yessss,” he says. “You’re the one I’ve been looking for.” *** I only spoke to O’Neill on birthdays - sixteen, twenty, twentyfour - after the Big Man gave unwanted gifts. Life, I assumed, had a satisfaction guarantee, an extended warranty on all products, regardless of price, and if I was unhappy, I should visit O’Neill in the Complaints Department. At sixteen, my grievance was minor - damaged packaging, easily fixed - but at twenty, it was major: faulty wiring, defective batteries. Unfixable, but quickly exchanged. At twenty-four, I told the Big Man to go to hell. Missing parts. Irreplaceable. No refund. No exchange. Just grievance. Sixteen-Year-Old Me, the victim of a recent dumping, was no match for O’Neill. He may have been an intellectual lightweight, but I was only a featherweight. If I ever wanted to beat him, I would have to bulk up my brain, so I began reading books with big words and long titles, hoping to pack on pounds of knowledge, strengthen my stamina, and master the art of argumentation. Between meals of Plato and Schopenhauer, I snacked on Sudoku, and after two years of training, O’Neill and I were evenly matched. After two more - during which I discovered chess, Vitamin B, and crossword puzzles - I was a full-fledged welterweight, if not a border-line middleweight. Bout One may have been a one-sided lecture, but Bout Two was a cross-bearing debate. O’Neill began by beating out my latest grievance, even though it was written across my hairspeckled scalp. He told me to speak my mind and say what was in my heart, since the Big Man knew everything anyway. I didn’t mention that what was in my heart rarely matched what was in my head, nor did I note the redundancy of his position as a spiritual middleman. I simply asked him why God would condemn a twenty-year-old to death. I had never committed a serious crime, I went to church more often than most Christians, and I frequently treated my friends and family with respect. Even

my three ex-girlfriends had nice things to say about me, generally speaking. What did I do to deserve cancer? Instead of answering, O’Neill lowered himself into the pew and placed a ring-less hand on my shoulder. He reminded me that God was higher than we were, that He asked for love, not understanding. “He’d have to be pretty high,” I replied, “to ask for one without the other.” O’Neill’s hand fell away. He quoted Proverbs 9:10: The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. “Just as the fear of logic is the beginning of delusion.” He said I should be grateful for what I had, since things could always be worse. For most of the planet, things were worse. “And for that I should be grateful?” He didn’t respond. Probably because he agreed but could never admit it. Luckily, my cancer was treatable, but it caused a lot of anxiety at the time. It was as if God was teasing me, forcing me to be grateful for an illness that could have always been worse. For months - before, during, and after my treatment - I dedicated myself to hating Him, and He rewarded me with life. After all, death would have been a gift; He knew I wanted to meet Him faceto-face. My indignation grew as I recovered, and where others saw mercy, I saw mockery. I wouldn’t rest until I beat Him at His own game, so I practiced on my parents and turned the kitchen into a court room. They defended the Big Man more adamantly than O’Neill ever would or could, but in their few moments of weakness I managed to convince them to take up the cross against their Lord and Savior. For every stone I threw at the sky I expected a boulder to fall in return. But months passed, then years, and nothing happened. Eventually, I ended my crusade and turned my mind to more important matters, like girls and school. I not only forgave God, but when things went well I actually thanked Him. Genuinely. Earnestly. And that’s when the boulder fell. By then, it had been four years since my last bout with Father “Middleman” O’Neill. We didn’t speak at my parents’ funeral, but I left a note on the altar requesting a rematch. He had heard my eulogy; I had heard his sermon. For the moment,

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there was nothing more to say. *** O’Neill moves along the back wall, and I move with him, hopping from aisle to aisle, crouching behind promotional displays and racks of discount Rieslings. Even his walk is different, a sober glide instead of a stumble. His eyebrows are longer too. They peel up and away from his face, either reaching for the heavens or fleeing their earthly constraints. But the real mystery is his suit, which O’Neill couldn’t afford even if he stole from the collection plate. Why would he want it anyway? Isn’t there some kind of after-hours dress code? Or has he retired from the Complaints Department? Can priests retire, or is their union with the Big Man, for better or worse, till death do they part? So many questions, doomed to go unanswered. If only I had the nerve to confront him. When I was younger, I liked to sum up my enemies in a sentence, reducing entire lives to a single subject, verb, and thought. Girls had daddy issues; boys had mommy issues; O’Neill had whiskey issues. (And daddy issues of a more metaphysical kind.) But something about O’Neill eluded my reductions. For every cliché, I found a contradiction one that would unravel my tidy theory. The way he sighed before speaking. The way he broke the bread and poured the wine, as if dining at his own Last Supper. The length and tone of his silences, hinting at a sermon beyond speech. I had known O’Neill since I was five or six, when my parents decided to abandon their pagan pastimes and get cosy with God. I never quite shared their faith, but I had a hard time putting the Big Man out of my head. Even if I knew He wasn’t there, a part of me always believed He was - especially when I wished He wasn’t. In a good mood, I was an atheist; in a bad mood, a believer; in an average mood, an agnostic. Most of the time, my mood was average, which made life hard to navigate. “A Godless world is an indifferent world,” I once told him, “but at least it isn’t cruel.” O’Neill replied that the world was cruel, with or without God’s help.

His fervor may have waned as his years advanced, but he

drank only enough to numb the pain of his disbelief. Whenever I spoke with him, I could smell the sacrament on his breath, yet it didn’t seem to affect his performance. The parables and the platitudes were still intact, chiselled into his mind alongside the doubts and the regrets. According to some, O’Neill hid flasks around the church: in the vestibule, under the altar, behind the crucifix. The only confirmed location was the last. One Sunday, after catechism, an altar boy saw O’Neill remove a black object from the back of the cross, just inches below the feet and the nail. “Is that one of those GPS tracking things?” the boy asked, assuming it was meant to protect our Lord and Savior from thieves. “It’s a container,” O’Neill said, slipping the flask into his robes. When asked what the container contained, O’Neill replied without hesitation: “Holy water.” ***

O’Neill stops at a tasting booth, presumably to sample each bottle with poise and restraint, to sniff and swirl and sip. However, when the tattooed clerk gestures to the red, O’Neill bites his lip, waves an absolving hand, and keeps walking.

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Who is this impostor, and what has he done with O’Neill? Why is he here, if not to stock up on holy water? Maybe he knows that I’m following him. Maybe he’s following me. Maybe the Big Man sent him. Is O’Neill here to drop the next boulder? How does divine intervention usually work? Am I supposed to confront him, or is he supposed to approach me? Does it matter? What will happen if I just avoid him? My parents are already dead, and I renounced everyone else who matters to me. O’Neill could still harm me directly, but only if he has some kind of weapon. What if he’s carrying a gun? Should I attack him before he attacks me? No, his weapon is probably more subtle. Maybe my cancer is back. But how the hell would he know that? O’Neill turns suddenly, as if he forgot something, and walks toward me. I duck behind the nearest display rack, but before I can peek over the top, I hear a familiar voice: “Charlie? Is that you?” *** Compared to Bouts One and Two, Bout Three went well. Perhaps too well. The day of reckoning summoned clear, windless skies and springtime temperatures. Ideal for a round of golf or a picnic, but not for an epic rematch. I wanted hurricane winds, sheets of rain, lightning swatting planes out of the sky. Something to match the gravitas of the occasion. Something to echo the rage constricting my heart, heating my veins. I felt like a warrior on the march to a coliseum, eager to embrace another victory or accept a final defeat. I assumed that O’Neill was still a lightweight, but perhaps he had changed. Maybe he rediscovered his passion for God and now put on his collar with pride. Maybe he hummed his hymns with gusto and recited his sermons with delight. Maybe the blood of Christ was now reserved for worshippers only - or, at the very least, consumed in moderation. Blessed are the sober, for they shall inherit the car keys. I saw that on a bumper sticker in the parking lot and prayed that it belonged to O’Neill. But I couldn’t imagine a man of the cloth driving a mini-van.

As I entered the church, I vowed to stay calm and engage O’Neill on the most profound levels of theology, but when I saw him sway down the aisle with his sunken, world-weary face, I knew what was about to happen. “You should be happy,” he said, easing into the pew. “Your parents are in Heaven.” “I’d be happier if they were here.” “I know. But rest assured they’re with God now.” “Well, can you ask God to give them back? They weren’t in any rush to join Him.” “In their hearts, they were.” “And in their minds, they weren’t. I wonder which organ is more relevant.” “I know it’s hard to understand, but this is all part of God’s plan.” “And the drunk driver, who got off with a fine - how does he fit into God’s plan?” O’Neill cleared his throat and forced a patronizing smile. “Do you want to live the rest of your life in anger?” “Gladly. Any other way would be an insult.” “They wouldn’t want you to live like this either.” “I don’t really see an alternative.” “That’s because you’ve turned away from God, my son. Away from your fellow man - “ “If I ever see ‘my fellow man’ again, I’ll do a lot more than turn away from him. And if I see God, and He’s dumb enough to let me anywhere near those Pearly Gates, He better buckle up. Eternity’s going to be a bumpy ride with me in the back seat.” I knew how silly I sounded, but I didn’t care. I was striking a blow for divine justice, even if the only thing I could hit was air. Dusty, holy, otherworldly air. The air of salvation and hypocrisy. The air of divine justice. After twenty-four years of life, I had concluded that there was nothing just about divinity and nothing divine about justice. There was only The Incomprehensible Hereafter and The Incomprehensible Here, with little in common besides middle names. The Hereafter was, is, and always will be, the grand enigma: endlessly frustrating, perpetually fascinating, permanently out-of-reach. Like a lover who justifies their contradictions through mystery and blames their partner for their own flights of infidelity. The Here, on the other hand, was more accessible but no less absurd, and it seemed to be occupied by

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two types of people: The Lucky and The Unlucky - or, according to The Unlucky, The Unlucky and The Super Unlucky. Yet such pessimism was unrealistic, for many people could count themselves among The Lucky: those who had not yet been born, and those who were already dead. “What about your parents?” O’Neill asked. “What happens if you see them?” “Somehow I don’t think that will be an issue. Your God and my fellow man have made sure of that.” “He’s your God too, you know. For better or worse.” “Well, let Him know I want a divorce.” I stood and grabbed my jacket. “I met someone with horns and a tail who seems to get me.” “It’s up to you to close the wound, my son. No one can do it for you.” I started to walk away. “I’m not your son. Father.” Was that the best God could do? Or did He think so little of me that He wouldn’t even grant me a worthy opponent? Either way, I showed the Big Man what a real man looked like, and I awaited his judgment with furious glee. A week later, I received an unsigned, wine-stained letter with no return address: You arrogant, delusional brat. The world does not revolve around you. Grow up. Years passed. I cut off my friends, broke up with my girlfriend, and abandoned my dreams, fearing what might happen if I had something to lose. Death was not going to come from above - I knew that - but it could still arrive from the side, from the front, from behind. And I would never see it coming. God was a dog that did not need to bark; His bite spoke for itself. But I’m thirty-three, and I’m still waiting to feel it. *** As O’Neill approaches, his pants rattle. Car keys. Loose change. The Holy Flask. “I thought it was you,” he says, tilting his head. “What are you doing down there?” “Uh, just tying my shoe.”

I stand, meeting him eye to eye. He studies my hippie hair, my beard, my surf shorts. His gaze lingers, however, on my flipflops. “How are you?” he asks, sizing up his opponent. “You look...” “Like a homeless Jesus?” He laughs and nods. “I like your sandals.” “I like your suit.” “Isn’t it nice?” He runs his hand over the fabric. “My brother was a tailor.” I ask if the Big Man has a dress code. “I’m on sabbatical,” he replies. “Returning in April.” I point to the bulge in his pocket and ask if he still sticks it behind Jesus. He furrows his pious brow. “The flask,” I explain. “Do you still...” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a steel crucifix. “It’s for my niece,” he says. “I’m on my way to her birthday party.” I look at the bottle in his other hand. “Does your niece drink pinot?” “Her parents do.” “What about her uncle?” “Eight years sober.” He even shows me his AA token, a bronze medallion the size of a poker chip. TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE, it says, along with UNITY, SERVICE, RECOVERY and the roman numeral for eight. His guard is down, his chin exposed. This is my chance for a knockout punch. “You should come by the church sometime,” he says. “It’d be nice to see a familiar face.” A left hook, out of nowhere! My mind staggers back. I reach for theories to break my fall, some rationale to explain his demeanor. His eyes seem sober, his smile sincere. But “seem” is the key word. I shouldn’t be fooled by his cheek-turning. It’s just another tactic in his arsenal. He knows that I’ll win if we fight. Or maybe he’s indifferent. Maybe the Big Man is indifferent too. Maybe they have always been indifferent, and my epic battles were nothing more than daydreams, confined to my head. Does O’Neill even remember our last encounter? And, if so, does he care? Have I wasted the best years of my life on a delusion?

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You should come by the church sometime, he says. (What the hell does that mean?) It’d be nice to see a familiar face. I have one last chance to duck and deflect, to salvage my struggle.

I tell O’Neill, “You know, I just might.” He smiles and shakes my hand. “Take care, Charlie.” “See you around, Father.” And then he leaves. No boulder. No Bout Four.

SAFETY IN NUMBERS

Alexandra Jones

It took half an hour of cooing through the shake and shudder of the subway train for the baby to fall asleep. He had screamed the whole thirty minutes, driving off all the other passengers until she and a tired-looking teenage girl were the only ones left in the car. The sound dropped off abruptly; one minute his tiny face was screwed up in fury, and the next he was blinking sadly up at her and drifting off into sleep. Even his unconscious form seemed to project his disappointment in her, a frown sitting sourly between the swell of his cheeks, fists held clenched up near his chin like a miniature boxer. The mother had missed her stop twice now: once on the way there and once on the way back when she had hit the end of the line. She was back where she had started now, heading south for the second time, the baby finally quiet in her arms. He’d started out fairly content with their little trip, but then—maybe sensing that that they hadn’t gotten off when they should’ve—decided to remind her just how devastatingly loud he could be. There weren’t many people on the subway this late, and she was glad that the only one in her car was a girl. The teenager sat across from her, staring off somewhere over the mother’s left shoulder. She looked like she was still in high school, first year of university at most, and the mother felt an instinctive unease at the idea of a girl that young being alone on the subway at night. A giant, tie-dyed bag was settled in her lap, her right hand tucked underneath it, arm mov-ing slightly like she was rubbing a nervous palm over her leg. Her left arm was in a white sling, the triangular

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shape of it sitting awkwardly against her body, hand placed on top of the bag. Her ankles knocked together whenever the train swayed, like schoolgirls nudging their friends. The girl couldn’t seem to decide whether to close her eyes or keep them open; they kept fluttering at half mast, the tiny, constant, movement drawing the mother’s gaze. She tried not to stare; she was once the same age as the girl across from her and knew the feeling of precariousness that came with it. She remembered how overwhelming the frightened voice in her own head could get back then. When she was in school she had tried her hardest to kill that voice, making sure she was always the loudest girl in a room, the one that caught the boys’ eyes. Somehow she’d had this idea that the more people were looking at her, the less afraid she’d be of their stares. Safety in numbers. Her husband had been one of those pairs of eyes once, gazing at her from a corner booth near the dance floor, just dark and mysterious enough for her to ask him to join her. After they started dating, she hadn’t gone out with her friends as much; he didn’t seem to like the idea of her dancing at clubs without him, and it was an easy sacrifice to make to keep him. Her friends had teased her for months and months after she’d met him, laughing that they had never thought someone would come along who could tame her. “What’s being with her like?” some of the men had asked her husband, shooting her sharp looks out of the corners of their eyes like they were doing something brave by speaking about her while she was right there. “She’s a wildfire, isn’t she?” He would bluster something about beating them up for “speaking of her that way” and then later that night he’d press her into the sheets and call her his little wildfire, his alone. The baby had been asleep long enough that she felt it was safe to return him to his carrier. He didn’t stir when she slowly lifted him up and slid him under the handle and into the little seat. He let out a sleepy murmur as she wrapped the blankets around him, soothing, nonsense words coming automatically to her lips. “Hey, you’re good, you’re good, aren’t you? Shh, little one, you’re alright.” After shifting a few times, he settled down, and she finished tucking him. So much of being a mother was simply routine, she’d come to realize. Her husband had wanted a child so badly, crowding up against her every time he came through the door in a way he never

had before, the pressure of his mouth on her neck speaking his intentions loud and clear. Barely a year into their marriage they ceremonially threw away all of their condoms, laughing together and pretending to give them funeral rites. “We’re ready,” he’d told her. “Just imagine us, making our own little person. And I know you’d like someone else around to take care of other than me.” He’d always had this peculiar image of her as a motherly sort underneath her wild exterior, and she was too charmed by this hopeful inaccuracy to tell him how wrong he was. But it didn’t mean she didn’t want the baby. Not at first, not when it was just an idea that made him want to place his hands all over her body and spend the afternoons when he got off work early in bed with her. Not before her stomach started to swell and he started to spend more time out with his friends than at home. The subway screeched its way to a halt and the mother and the girl tensed as the doors slid open. Beyond was a wide stretch of flat, grey platform, a small crowd of people milling about, cables and open wiring dripping from the ceiling and walls. There was a sign that said something about construction that the mother only just saw before the doors slid shut. The girl across from her let out an audible breath of relief at the same time as the mother. They both looked at each other in surprise, sharing the smile of similar thoughts recognized. No one had gotten on their car. They were safe and alone. The mother crossed her legs, pushing her duffel bag farther under her seat with the heel of her right shoe, and the girl resumed the rhythm of her hand under her bag. The subway car was silent except for the hollow whistle of air around the outside and it took her longer than it should have to figure out what was happening. The girl’s sigh almost dis-appeared into the ambient noise around them, but when the mother glanced over, wondering if she’d imagined it, the girl was staring off into the distance, her bottom lip trapped under her teeth and her cheeks flushed. The mother looked at the shift of the girl’s right arm, the quick pattern of its movement, and froze in sudden realization and disgust. She could feel the weight of the baby carrier pressing into her own arm, pinning it against her side. No, she thought. The girl wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. The girl’s body wasn’t moving ex-cept for her arm. Her other hand lay calmly on top of her bag, hanging uselessly out of the sling. Her face was sinking back into an empty expression, lower lip settling

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into a line on her face, neither a smile nor a frown. Certainly not a look of pleasure. And yet the mother couldn’t shake the feeling that her initial realization had been correct. An automated female voice announced that they were approaching the next stop and they burst out of the black tunnel into the light of a station. The mother held on to the handle of the baby carrier to keep it from sliding away from her as they stopped, and she watched the doors open. The platform beyond held a handful more people than the last, but none of them got on the car with her and the girl. Her relief was even stronger this time, her eyes flicking to where the girl was looking out as well, her face blank with an odd sort of confidence and her hand still hid-den under the bag in her lap. They both sat back as the doors closed, and the mother had to stop herself from giving the girl a nod, as if to say “coast is clear, carry on”. The girl didn’t seem to need it anyway, her elbow ticking away by her side as soon as they started moving again. The mother was wearing a thick wool coat, a present from her husband, but still she felt a strange, pervasive cold sneak under her skin as she watched the girl out of the corner of her eye. She remembered the long months of her pregnancy, lying awake and looking at the wide expanse of her husband’s back as he slept, facing away from her and towards the cool air coming in from the tiny window that never quite shut properly. She remembered wanting to reach out and smooth her hand down the stretch of exposed skin, maybe tuck her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pull him towards her. But the cold of the window had slipped into the space be-tween them like a third bedfellow and she hadn`t been able to push through it, fighting for space in her own bed. A couple months ago, when the baby had been fast asleep and she was burning in a way she hadn’t been able to for weeks, he had come home from work—or the bar, where he often went right after his shift at the DMV—to find her waiting for him on their bed. And he’d smiled, soft and patronizing, and said, “No, it’s okay, honey, you don’t have to do that for me. I know you’re tired.” She’d stared at him, uncomprehending, as he turned and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. A strip of dirty light bled out from under the bathroom door, trick-ling across her bare feet, and she’d stood up abruptly, crossing to the closet and pulling on a nightgown with quick, shaking fingers, suddenly feeling very stupid. For him, she thought. For him?

The girl’s arm was moving faster now, enough that it was shifting the bag in her lap and she had to press her left hand down to hold it in place. The mother could see the stress visible in her body, the way she was holding herself as still as possible, and if there had been doubt before in her mind about what was happening, there was none now. The subway train curved around a corner, the baby carrier rocking against the mother’s arm, as “Now arriving at Farrow Station” echoed out through the car. The girl’s eyes blew wide with panic and the mother felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, a sudden camaraderie. She could feel the girl’s tension in her own blood, as if she too were on the edge of something, and the idea that anything could happen to break the safe bubble of this subway car seemed impossible. The subway jerked to a halt, doors opening to an empty station, and the girl’s mouth dropped open. A shudder went through her, her shoulders hunching and legs curling slightly up off the ground before her entire body went suddenly, deliciously lax. The mother’s hand loosened around the handle of the baby carrier she had been unconsciously gripping, and she was at once aware of the strain of the bones in that hand, of the cold sweat dampening the underarms of her shirt. The doors of the subway slid calmly shut again and the train jolted back into movement. It all seemed to last only a second, the girl’s face smoothing out as quickly as possible, so quickly that if the mother hadn’t known what to look for, she would have missed the entire event. The girl’s eyes had fluttered closed, but she quickly opened them, adjusting her posture and position until she was sitting exactly as she had been when she’d first gotten on the subway. She made a jerky movement with her left arm, but the sling caught her, leaving her hand to scrabble at the opening of the bag. The soft relief that had fallen over her started to melt away as she struggled to reach inside. Her shoulder jerked and she snuck her right hand out from her lap, fingers glistening in the dim light before she hid her hand beside her thigh. She had nothing to wipe her hand on, the mother realized. Maybe she did this a lot, maybe she usually had tissues and hand sanitizer in her bag. The girl held herself stiffly for a long moment, clearly trying not to let her right hand bump into anything while her left hand flapped uselessly about an inch inside her bag. Finally, seeming to realize that she was defeated, she raised her right hand and made a motion to wipe it off on the top of the bag itself.

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“No, wait—” The mother hadn’t meant to speak, and she cut herself off. It was too late; the girl froze and stared at her, her shining, wet hand hovering in mid-air over her lap, exposed. “I just—I have some Kleenex,” the mother said, swinging her purse into her lap and un-zipping a side compartment. If she was going to stop pretending that she didn’t know what had just happened, she might as well commit. “Oh,” the girl said. Slow realization was crawling its way up her neck in a brick red flush, her face crumpling. “Oh, I didn’t—I don’t need—” “Yes, you do,” the mother said. “No point in pretending. It’s fine, just—have some Kleenex.” She pulled a couple of tissues out of the travel pack in her purse and leaned over the aisle between them, holding them out. The girl hesitated, looking down at the sling on her left arm, and then stretched out her right hand. The mother forced herself not to recoil at the girl’s sticky fingers as they carefully took just the edge of the tissues. A familiar smell came from the girl’s hands and an odd nostalgia churned in the mother’s stomach. “Thank you,” the girl said quietly, pulling away as fast as she could, Kleenex safely in her grasp. Her head down, she wiped her hand as best she could, cleaning quickly but carefully, finger by finger, getting between each one and then across the palm of her hand. When she was done she stared at the Kleenex before putting it down on the seat next to her, still clearly flustered. “I’m sorry,” she said, not looking at the mother. “I don’t usually—when—not that I—I’m sorry.” “It’s fine,” the mother repeated. “I just—stressful day, you know?” There was a distant, horrified look on her face, like she wanted to make herself shut up, but couldn’t quite remember how to flip the off switch be-tween her brain and her mouth. “I wouldn’t have if there was like a ton of people, or, you know, a guy on the train.” “There’s nothing wrong with wanting something for yourself,” the mother said. “As long as it doesn’t put you in danger. And I wouldn’t recommend doing that in public often.” “But that’s the part I—” the girl cut herself off abruptly, raising her right arm and press-ing her forehead to her wrist. “Can we just pretend that you didn’t see that?”

She was mortified, yes, but there was something else in slouch of her shoulders. Guilt at pressing the topic suddenly filled the mother. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.” “No—no, I’m the one who—you’re good,” the girl said, her tone unexpectedly fierce, like she needed the mother to understand. “You’re fine.” The car rattled beneath them, swaying their bodies slightly with each curve of the track. The mother smiled at the girl and received one in return, like a signature on a contract. A couple of hours ago, before she had gotten on the subway, before the baby had started screaming like something was terribly wrong, her husband had come home. It was only the early evening, and yet he was already drunk, a lazy, sprawling power in the lurch of his body towards her. “C’mere, my little wildfire,” he’d said. “C’mere.” After, he’d passed out, and she had slowly, painfully, twisted her way out from under-neath him. She’d carefully gotten dressed and gone to the baby’s crib, where he was fussing, his limbs flailing and his face flushed with distress. He’d been woken up by their noise and was clearly unhappy about it. It was nowhere near the howling fury he’d reach later in the night, and it was simple enough for her to pick him up and calm him, walking in slow, halting circles next to the tiny window and its curl of cold air. Still humming to him, she’d packed a small duffel bag with the essentials for the baby and a few things for her, and left. The train slid to a stop, and this time when the doors opened, loud laughter barreled in-side as four young men came on, talking excitedly. “Almost missed it—” “That woulda sucked, isn’t this like the last one?” “You were the one who wanted to do, like, five more shots!” “Come on, I’m not that—” “Oh, not that drunk, tell me that again when you can walk without stumbling into fucking everything—” The Kleenex fell off the seat, where the girl was sitting rigidly, her eyes fixed on the wall. One of the boys stepped on the crumpled tissue on his way past, flattening it into the floor. The group moved to the back of the subway car, foregoing seats in favour of holding onto the poles and roof handholds, tipping from side to side carelessly with the movement of the train. The girl was trying not to look at them, her posture deceptively casual, when the mother caught her eye and gestured to the empty seat at her right side. The girl hesitated, glancing at the men, and then stood

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up, crossing the train in two quick steps and sinking down next to the mother. One of the boys, dark haired and handsome, like her husband, gave them a curious look, eyes traveling from the girl’s shoes to her head in a brief once over, before rejoining his friends’ con-versation. The girl’s sling bumped into the mother’s right arm and she muttered a quiet apology. There was clear gratitude on her face. “Which stop is yours?” the mother asked. “Oh, I’m getting off at Stubenville.” The last stop. “That’s the same one as mine,” the mother said. It wasn’t; the one she had failed to get off at twice now, her legs and determination betraying her as soon as she reached it, was actually the stop before. But it would be simple enough to ride one extra stop and phone from there. Her cousin had a car and could pick her up there just as easily. “Oh,” the girl said. “Do you have someone to meet you when you get there?” “Yeah, my Dad. He’s not happy with me, but he’ll be there.” “You’re out very late.” “I was supposed to go home with my friend. We went to this party together, but she—she found someone else to go home with. A guy. I was kinda mad, which is dumb, because it’s not like anyone was going to want me when I’m still all crippled, but—anyway, I didn’t really think when I just decided to get on the subway and go home by myself.” She laughed softly, bitterly. “It’s a stupid thing to be upset about, I guess.” “No, it’s not.” The train stopped and the group of men all stumbled off, their voices receding into the distance. The girl didn’t move back to her former seat, staying warm and protected against the mother’s side. The baby let out a small sound, perhaps sensing how long he’d been ignored, and the mother bent over him quickly, running a finger across his small forehead. He settled under her touch—not as fast as he would’ve with his father, who he adored, but quickly enough that she felt a dull sort of satisfaction. If she couldn’t be herself entirely, at least she wasn’t terrible at be-ing a mother. “What’s his name?” The girl was leaning over and smiling the instinctive smile young people get around ba-bies. The mother pulled the baby carrier carefully onto her lap and let the girl get a better look at him, swaddled in blankets and sleeping sweetly. “His name is Charlie,” she said.

“He’s beautiful.” The mother gazed down at the little boy, at the wisps of hair at the crown of his head that would likely grow out into her husband’s curly mane, at the familiar shape of his tiny ears and nose. He had her mouth though, and her fierce eyes, and he was innocent as anything, small and new. “He is, isn’t he,” she said, love sitting thickly in her throat. “I hope he stays that way.” And they sat together, hurtling through the blackness, all the way to the end of the line.

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I take my time and look around. It’s a small store, and although the owner stocks some new things in the front windows and displays around the counter, the really good stuff is at the back. The owner must search book sales and flea markets all over the city to find these treasures. This store has those ladders that you can climb and push around the room to get at all the dusty ones right on the top shelves. I found a book of photography of the East Coast, and I thought it would be lovely to put on our coffee table. I don’t know. Those red and white lighthouses have such homey appeal. There are also old magazines from years and years and years gone by. The advertisements are shocking and hilarious. I pick up an old housekeeping issue and decide to buy it, because it doesn’t cost so much and you and I can laugh at it together. On the counter are boxes of old postcards. I decide to buy one that has a fat grey cat wearing a party polka-dotted hat. I can send it off for somebody’s birthday whenever it comes around. Then, just to cover the whole store, I look at the racks at the front, which hold all the newer books. These ones aren’t covered in dust; they’ve come from a publisher, not an antique shop. I pick up a book of poetry that has a steel-grey cover and a romantic sounding title. I take it in my hands and then stop. My heart starts to beat faster, which doesn’t make sense, because although I am suddenly intensely interested, I know there is no need for me to be panicking like I am. It’s not an entirely uncommon name, so it is possible that it isn’t the same person. But I flip to the inside back cover, take a look at the author’s photo, and see that it is the same person. You used to be in love with the girl (who grew into the woman) who wrote these poems. When you loved her, I harbored a fierce jealousy. We all went to school together, when were young enough to think that we were nearly grown-up already. When we were teenagers, I mean. Her picture is black and white, but I remember vividly how bright and blue her eyes were (are, I guess). She looks very much the same. Not so much time has passed, after all. This woman is alive in the world, living a life that no longer revolves around you or your love. How curious… I can’t stop staring I read the short biography under the picture, but I don’t read any of the poems. Part of me feels a burning need to put

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this book down and walk away. Another part of me really thinks I could handle turning the pages and taking it all in, slowly, and casually. A third part of me wants to buy the book, and take it home, and study it until I have memorized every word. Why? When I make myself pull away, suddenly it seems I don’t want to buy anything today after all. I carefully put everything back where it was when I arrived, to save work for the owner, and then I leave. Maybe I will come back to riffle through the postcard box when someone’s birthday is closer. It’s not a long walk home from the bookstore, but I took a different route. I wasn’t sure if you would be home already, and I didn’t want to come home feeling dazed over something so ridiculous, and then have you notice, and risk that you might make me tell you, and then make me feel even sillier than before, and make you feel guilt for some twisted reason that neither of us would know how to name. So to save us both in some small way, I walk around the neighbourhood and indulge in these feelings that I haven’t felt for so many years. I realize that my strange impulse to memorize her poetry aligns with the fact that I have already memorized several things about her. The colour of her eyes, for example, I remember vividly. There is, for another example, a picture of the two of you together, in our yearbook from senior year. You might not even remember this little picture, but it’s there, and I could find it and show it to anyone who asked. Not that I ever would, of course. It’s nothing special; in fact it isn’t even really a photo of you or her, intentionally. It’s just a candid photo of a hallway full of people. It’s a long shot, maybe a couple of pictures stitched together actually – I don’t know, I don’t know anything about photography. Anyway there you are together, standing against a locker. Your face isn’t even in the picture. You’re digging for something in your locker and your back is to the camera. But her face is very clearly visible. And it’s the way she’s looking at you… So beautiful that it’s the stuff of my nightmares. I wish I’d never seen this picture, because it’s how I permanently remember her. I never knew her well, in real life, so in my mind she’s frozen just like that – looking at you like she’ll never love anyone else again, and she’s only 18. In my mind, I’ve turned this picture into a moving image. Now it’s a living scene, and I’m in this crowded hallway, on the other side of the hallway, and there are people walking past, in both directions. Maybe someone is talking to me, but I’m not

listening to them, or maybe I am, but only partially. I am looking across this hall, through the passing people, and on the other side of the hallway, there you are. You’re occupied and not looking at anyone, but she is looking at you. And this moment is captured in an invented memory that I never even saw. Though I may never have even witnessed this scene with my own eyes, still it makes my blood boil. It makes me feel like sick. Not that I’m going to be sick – like I literally am sickness incarnate. When I let myself live in this invented scene, I know this tortured feeling isn’t coming from her, or from you, or the photog rapher even, but myself – I am the sickness. There is another memory that I have… this one is not invented. This one is real. I never knew her, like I said, but she was in a class of mine in our final semester before graduation. It was a creative writing class. I took it because I thought it would be easy and maybe fun. I guess she took it because she really can write. Anyway, one day we were starting the Poetry Section of this class, and the teacher told us all to get out a pen and try to write a haiku. I thought that sounded like a tall order, but little did I know the class would only get harder from here. Anyway, I think I wrote a haiku about a tea party or a kitten or something cute, but nothing with much substance. I was pretty proud of it in the moment, too. The teacher asked us if we wanted to share what we’d written and I think I did share what I had written and I think I was pretty happy with it. Anyway, then your high school sweetheart shared her little haiku and it was beautiful. It was about you, I knew it. This time I’m not letting my imagination run away with me, it was certainly about you, and everyone in the class knew it, including the teacher. That was part of why it was so good, I think. We all knew who it was about and she didn’t even say your name. Anyway I’ve only ever heard that haiku once in my life and it’s been years since then and I’ve had it memorized ever since. Don’t ask me to say it for you, though, because I won’t. But now, sitting on the curb on a street in our neighbourhood, reciting it to myself, I actually start to feel better. It was like my heart gets some kind of twisted pleasure out of leaning on a knife that I, myself, was slowly sharpening. Better a sharp knife

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than a dull knife if you’ve got to be wounded, right? And I think we’ve all got little wounds of our own, most of which we give ourselves over the years. Anyway, eventually I get up and I feel like I’m ready to go home. On the way, there is one last thing I think about. I realize that I can never imagine the two of you alone together. I mean, Before then, I don’t know if I’d ever really tried to. But now when I do, I can’t picture it. I can’t imagine you sitting alone at dinner together, or doing each other’s laundry, or fighting about cleaning out the fucking refrigerator. But I can see us doing all that. Because that’s no invention of mine. Too wonderful to be any invention of mine. And I can see us here, right now. With my hand on your little ear, and I can hear the sound of your fingers on the keyboard and all of it is oh, so real. I touch your neck and I know it’s all real, and I don’t feel like I am anyone’s sickness anymore.

CONTRIBUTORS

Leanne Simpson Leanne Simpson lives in Toronto, Canada. Her nonfiction and fiction writing has placed first and second respectively in the University of Toronto Scarborough Creative Writing Competition, and has been featured in Scarborough Fair, The Mike and The Varsity. Leanne was selected for the 2013 Canadian women’s dodgeball team and plays competitive tournaments when she’s not busy eavesdropping on people at bars. She is currently working on a nonfiction book in conjunction with the UTSC creative writing program.

Helen Morris Helen Morris has just started writing in between the large amount of washing she does. She lives and works in Essex. When she isn’t doing the washing or bringing order to her three son chaos she also likes swimming, cooking, riding her bike and sitting in pubs drinking beer and putting the world to rights. She is on twitter @mortaltaste.

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Natasha Ramoutar Natasha is a third year student at the University of Toronto - Scarborough Campus. She is double majoring in English and French. She has been previously published in UTSC’s creative writing journal Scarborough Fair and UTSC’s Undergraduate Humanities Conference. Natasha loves testing the boundaries of genre and literary fiction, and enjoys playing with dialogue and imagery.

Chris Gilmore Chris Gilmore has a Master’s degree in English and Creative Writing from the University of Toronto. He writes fiction, plays, and screenplays.

Alexandra Jones Alexandra Jones is a third-year English and Drama student at Victoria College within the University of Toronto. She spends most of her time writing stories or plays about slightly odd scenarios and slightly odd people, and hopes to be able to continue doing that for a very long time. When she’s not writing she can be found singing, drawing, or wasting her time on her computer.

Victoria Beales Victoria Beales was born and raised in Canada’s capital, and is currently a student of English, Philosophy, and Drama at University of Toronto. Her passions include theatre, travel, and storytelling. Victoria’s particular love of the short fiction genre is somewhat newfound, and she looks forward to continued experimentation and discovery within this creative form.

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