J.N. Burnett Literary Magazine Club // Volume 2, Issue 1: CONTRAST

contrast contrast contrast JN Burnett's Literary Magazine Club featuring works from the jn burnett student body

volume 2 | issue 1

november 2017

TABLE OF CONTENTS VOLUME 2 ISSUE 1

assortment of blossoms (pg 12) by elaine chen -

on the cover

EDITORS NOTE

3

CLUB MEMBERS // CONTRIBUTORS

4

JAM PACKED // A PLAYLIST

5

GLAM // TERESA LI

6

REBIRTH// MIKA IMADA

7

THE FLOWER ON HER SLEEVE // LEINA HARROP

8

BITES // APERTURE COFFEE BAR

10

ASSORTMENT OF BLOSSOMS // ELAINE CHEN

12

SW33T // TIMOTHY WAN

14

ART // ELIANA BARBOSA

15

INNOCENCE OF YOUTH // ELAINE CHEN, LEINA HARROP

16

RED LIPS // AMBER WEI

17

OPPOSITE // TRISTAN ECHAVEZ

18

PHOTOGRAPHY // WILLIAM AU

19

ABSTRACT SENTIENCE, CONCRETE THOUGHT// SHAWN CHANG

20

THE REALMS OF DAY AND NIGHT // TINA GUO

21

GETDIPT, A BRIGHT BLUR // THEO GALANO-TAN

22

THE WATER CYCLE // NIKKA ADRIAS

23

FISH OUT OF WATER // DOMINIC MALANA

24

ROUTE // HANNA SHIMADA

25

LOVE AND INDIFFERENCE; INDIFFERENCE AND LOVE //

26

ELIZABETH LIN CHEATED // MICHAEL LIANG

26

RED EYED // ELLA GAVILAN

28

WE ALL FALL // ANONYMOUS

29

THE BIRDS // JONAH WAN

30

OVER-INSPIRED // GABBY YAN

31

OPEN DOOR // ELLA GAVILAN

32

BRIDGEBURY LOSES HIS SANITY // ADAM TITLE

33

THANK YOU

44

EDITOR'S NOTE VOLUME 2 ISSUE 1

as jnb lit celebrates a full year since its birth, we pondered over numerous possible themes to mark the beginning of volume two. what single word could capture the club’s journey from stumbling baby steps to steady strides? what word could document the ups and downs that led to the discoveries of jnb lit’s multi-faceted personality and style? and finally, what word would understand november’s inherent monotony? these questions led us to CONTRAST. what is contrast? the dictionary might define it as a “striking difference”. but in order for a difference to be made, striking or not, change has to have happened. in other, contrast is traditionally described as juxtaposition of some sorts, but the word suggests an underlying transformation. so for us, contrast is the difference between: scalding hot chocolate & bone-chilling lemonade, bubbling laughter & dense sadness, ellen degeneres & joseph stalin, to name a few. and above all, contrast not only means the opposites, but also everything in between. welcome to volume two!

haley chung & danielle graham jnb lit magazine’s co editors-in-chief 11/14/17 23:59.

CL U

B

M

VOLUME 2 ISSUE 1

EM B E R

S

EXECUTIVES

ANI E D R LL E G AH A M

HA

L EY G H N C U EDITOR-IN-CHEIF

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

A N RO A N S AN G TS

GENERAL EXEC

SECRETARY/TREASURER

FF NY U I A T A

VISUAL ARTS DIRECTOR

AD T I AM TL E

I C HA M IA N GE L L

VISUAL ARTS DIRECTOR

KA K I N R A D I AS

E T RE SA

GENERAL EXEC

GENERAL EXEC

CONTRIBUTORS writers Shawn Chang, Bisam Kaur, Elizabeth Lin, Dominic Malana, Adam Title, Nikka Adrias artists Amber Wei, Gabby Yan, Eliana Barbosa, Hanna Shimada, Michael Liang, Mika Imada photographers Teresa Li, Jonah Wan, Megan Ong, Ella Gavilan, Timothy Wan, Leina Harrop, Elaine Chen, William Au, Theo Galano-Tan, Tristan Echavez, Tina Guo

L I

J A

M A PLAYLIST

D A P C E K

a musical list of opposites Neon Trees Everybody Talks Charlie Puth Attention LANY Good Girls Dodie Absolutely Smitten Atmosphere The Best Day Honne It Ain't Wrong Loving You Oh Wonder High on Humans The Marias Superclean Hayley Kiyoko ft. Sweater Beats Glory Days Michael Buble Beautiful Day Pentatonix Cant Sleep Love

Found it in Silence Distraction Bad Girls Hate that You Know Me Hard Times Love is Dead U Make Me Sick Waste I Miss that Feeling Manic Monday Asleep

HAIM Kehlani MIA The Bleachers Paramore Hazel English Holychild Oh Wonder Tennis The Bangles The Smiths

glam

EVERYDAY GRAPHIC

Teresa Li

|

38

rebirth Mika Imada

THE FLOWER

ON HER SLEEVE PHOTOS BY LEINA HARROP

b it x

es

x aperture coffee + dessert bar

affogato flight l to r: espresso, matcha, london fog; ice cream from earnest

At Aperturtre, you'll instantly be swept away from the rainy streets of Vancouver and into a cozy caffeine paradise.

Settle into one of their couches, enjoy their eclectic collection of books, and wrap yourself in the thick coffee scent we all know and love.

Our team recommends the popular affogatos.

LOCATION: 243 West Broadway, Vancouver, BC 8am-4pm

COVERAGE BY: Tiffany Au, Haley Chung, Rosanna Tsang

Assortment of Blossoms

PHOTOS BY ELAINE CHEN

bloom

light in the shadows

title

Sw33t Timothy Wan

Eliana Barbosa

the innocence

Take me back

of youth A COLLECTION OF PHOTOS INSPIRED BY STEPHEN KINGS "IT"

BY ELAINE CHEN & LEINA HARROP

Discovery

RED LIPS

AMBER WEI

opposite Tristan Echavez

William Au

Abstract Sentience, Concrete Thought Shawn Chang

Heaven Head, Earth Heel Flame Drought, Ice Flood Sun Bronze, Moon Steel Aluminum Bone, Platinum Blood

Echo Reap, Voice Sow Quicksand Body, Cement Mind Blessing Friend, Curse Foe Ideal Search, Truth Find

Future Born, Past Slain Eclipse Sea, Rainbow Sky Reason Claw, Passion Fang Beast Ear, Bird Eye

Memory Dawning, Dream Sleep Music Time, Silence Space Crest High, Trough Deep Glass Linen, Crystal Lace

Thunder Beat, Lightning Breath Dragon Silver, Phoenix Gold Spring Life, Winter Death River Young, Mountain Old

Nightmare Despair, Daydream Hope Cupid Gall, Psyche Bile Trust Level, Treason Slope Lad Sigh, Maiden Smile

Iris Light, Pupil Shade Ruby Ribbon, Sapphire String Wooden Sheath, Metal Blade Bow Beak, Arrow Wing

Always Frost, Never Ash Pathos Scribe, Logos Seer Mars Spear, Venus Sash Gestalt Far, Quantum Near

Petal Lady, Leaf Lord Amber King, Coral Queen Heart Shield, Soul Sword Wrath Red, Envy Green

Venom Bite, Honey Bark Ebony Black, Ivory White Angel Light, Demon Dark Omega Day, Alpha Night

The Realms of Day and Night Tina Guo

Theo Galano-Tan

A Bright Blur

GetDipt

The water cycle.

Nikka Adrias

I was warned about our story in the third grade.

About you, the sun, bright, warm, and welcoming in a sense And i, the water, fresh and calm and going with the flow. The problem with me going with The flow was that i did not know how to avoid your controlling nature.

Our story went as did everyone else's story went with you With you i got distracted, forgot where i was going and ended up falling from my safe river, Into the vast and eerie ocean; surrounded by darkness, you being my only source of light, my Single influence. my thoughts became briny and my actions became rough And there was no going back because at this point My thoughts were pelagic. i was too far, too deep into the ocean To remember who i was and to realize where my choices had lead me But it was all for you, it was all to get closer to you And it was worth it. the changes i made to be loved by you were worth it.

Well at least that's how it felt back then Because you finally accepted me, you pulled me close, you evaporated me But only because underwent a change.

A change as immense as when water turns into water vapour due to the sun's warmth.

At some point i got tired of this bond. tired of being loved for someone who i was not, Tired of only being wanted for someone who i was not.

We didn’t even make sense. water and fire, hot and cold; We should’ve known we didn’t belong since the start.

How foolish of me, being blinded by your radiance. too distracted to see that Your mendacious love suffocated me, the heat and the pressure being too much to handle.

The state in which we were stuck in was 27,000,000°, it was equivalent to, Or maybe even hotter than a sea of flames.

And although my vision was cloudy, and i had no sense of direction, i knew i had to escape.

This was not easy, this was not something i could do alone, So i was lucky to have been surrounded by other droplets that stood by me never gave up on Me in this ironically dark time.

Hand in hand with these companions, i let go of the person i was trying to be, So that you would let go of loving me and release me from your grip.

Slowly, as i fell back down to earth, i remembered who i was.

All of the changes i made had reversed and I reconnected with my true self. the connection felt as fierce as ever; A stronger connection than the effect that gravity has on earth.

My purified thoughts infiltrated back into my head and heart And for the first time, in a long time, i felt grounded.

Fish Out of Water

by Dominic Malana The strange unknown: freedom, fantasy, fiction.

A realm of new discovery, where wonders await in abundance.

The brief essence of freedom, accompanied by fear, lasting for only mere seconds.

Magically majestic, brilliantly anomalous.

Curiosity consumes, overtaking thought and reason, perhaps even defying logic.

Stripped of our breath, we spread our wings, and learn to fly.

Success seems impossible to grasp, the journey seems too grueling to complete.

Exhilaration in its purest form, too afraid to give up, powered by an abnormal fear.

Pushing to the brink of existence, until we fall back into the soothing waters, that we call home.

Route Hanna Shimada

Love and Indifference; Indifference and Love Elizabeth Lin If Love is a drop of blood staining broken glass, Hate is the sharp glass shrapnels drowning in a pool of blood. Both so different, yet so full of passion. The two are only separated by a thin line and it’s a wonder why so many think that they are opposites.

For Hate does not oppose Love and Love does not oppose Hate. They are twins and all it takes is a simple flick of a switch for one to shift to the other. Arm in arm, they take part in everyday actions and sometimes it might be easy to discern one from the other, but on other days, it is easy to see that they are twins.

But Indifference. Indifference is the plain scape where neither glass nor blood contaminate it with their sickly emotions. Just a stark cold white unending scene of nothingness and the things that make you feel solid but hollow.

Love is a black canvas ready to be filled with splashes of vibrant colours that flare adoration, struggle, and compromise. Shining out of the dark, any audience can’t help but be enamoured in their captivating frenzy of passion like a moth to a flame.

Silent. Not quiet or whispers, just silence. Indifference is nothing. Void and unwanted, Indifference is empty and will always be blank. Paints will not hold on this canvas no matter how much they try. Slipping, sliding, falling, not a single drop remains. Strangers walk past it with too much hurry and without a speck of interest; nobody has time for a picture that can never be started.

Love wears the colours of gold and silver over skin splashed with reds, yellows, greens, and blues. Everything about Love glows and the tilt of a raised chin only draws more eyes. Whether it be with one person or one million, Love is the most magnetizing.

Indifference shrouds itself with shawls of monotone grey and its face is unexplored territory. Looks glaze over it because it draws no attention in this world of monochrome grey; Indifference blends in with the shadows.

Love causes pain and its fangs sink deep. They leave deep scores, drawing out too much blood, and there’s a dizziness that is all-consuming but it’s passed off as being high on Love.

Indifference is a slap in the face. Direct and bold, you freeze. The shock of the force is startling and when the next strike comes, you raise an arm. Did you block it? It does not matter. You walk away.

Love is heartbreak after heartbreak after heartbreak. The cycle is vicious but it promises a way out: a better future. And who are you to doubt it? You are a creature weak to promises and hope. Love has not just your heart ensnared, but your mind as well. You let the wheel continue to spin and futilely prepare your heart to shatter again.

Indifference is clean-cut. Sharp and glinting in the light, one slice is all it takes.

Love is dirty and messy, always spilling and staining and shaking. There’s too much overflowing.

Indifference is empty: an end.

Love is passion: a viable spark.

Cheated Michael Liang

Red Eyed Ella Gavilan

We All Fall Her fiery hair blended in with the leaves on the trees. She was in a hurry. The trail of tears travelled down her cheeks as evidence.

It was over. There was nothing left. No family, no friends, no future, just nothing. The bite of the icy wind nipped at her soft pale skin; but not a single mark was left behind. Just like how the destruction inside her left left no scars.

Her fingers trembled as she struggled to light the cigar. It was, after all, the only thing she hadn’t ruined with her bare hands.

Peering at the scenery from under the curtain of her hair, she knew that nothing can ever capture the beauty of fall. No words, no pictures, no drawings....nothing. Fall has a life of its own. It is out of reach for us mere humans. It is carefree and fleeting. It comes and goes, nobody ever noticing.

Reaching out for a falling red leaf, she noticed the holes that scattered across it like constellations. Looking closer, she could see the deeply engraved age lines on the leaf. Each line was strong and independent, but yet it still tore. The leaf was delicate. It was tiny and gorgeous, but yet, fragile. Nonetheless , the mysticality and the worness entranced her, as though it had travelled directly from the Heavens.

What a joke. Her life was falling apart by the second and yet here she was, absorbed by a piece of leaf. Her mother hated her. Her dad was unrecognizable. Her brother? God knows what that kid thought of her. By all rights, he should hate her. Their family had been strong and one tiny mistake had caused it to go up in flames and there was nothing she could do but watch.

She was withering away just as the leaf was. She was fading and no one noticed. Not a single soul. Her friends, the remnants of her family, her mentors, but nobody noticed. What happened to the last couple of years. Was she this disposable? Was she just a falling leaf in the grand scheme of things? Beautiful and agonizing, but having no worth? She had lost sight of everything. Why did it matter anyways? They all waste away in the end. The only beauty she could still see was the beauty of fall. She could sit here forever, just watching. It gave her peace; to simply watch life go by instead of trying to keep up with it.

But with all said, she had things to do, people to see, and a life to salvage.

The Birds Jonah Wan

Over-inspired Gabby Yan

Open Door Ella Gavilan

Bridgebury Loses His Sanity A short story by Adam Title

Day 1 General Cunningham Westingworth Bridgebury sat at his desk in his private house in the english countryside, Fort Allworth.

It truly was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. There was a pleasant autumn breeze and the clouds hung lightly in the air, like picturesque puffs of cotton. It was midday and the sky was a beautiful shade of blue. The grass was an enchanting shade of musty green, that positively glowed in the noon light.

Fort Allworth itself was a beautiful house. It had a heavy oak door, and was made of magnificent marble bricks, with a dark olive green roof. It had tall, thin windows backed with white curtains. A stout chimney poked above the house’s roof, from which a gray wisp smoke rose. Although the house was called Fort Allworth it was hardly a fort, and was simply called as such in tribute to the actual Fort Allworth, which was owned by the Bridgebury’s, but was reduced to a pile of rubble in an unfortunate accident involving several large boxes of dynamite and a lit cigar.

The interior of Fort Allworth was as beautiful as its exterior. It had dark brown plaster walls, of which not an inch wasn’t covered with a painting, tapestry, or foreign rug. The dining room was a magnificent display of craftsmanship. Within its center was a gigantic grey, rectangular wooden table that smelled of pine, beset on either side by benches of equal might and presence.

At the very head of the table was a beautiful wooden chair, hand crafted and made of the finest material, the comfort of which however, was so that merely looking at it made one's back ache. A great brass chandelier hung above the table, brimming with candles. Past the dining room, through the library, below the bedrooms, above the cellar, and beside the living room, was General Bridgebury’s office. He sat behind a monolithic desk, made of burgundy brown walnut wood, in a large, leather-padded office chair. General Bridgebury was a man of average height and weight. He had a long thin nose and a distinguished, etched face. He had short grey hair and a thin moustache. At the time, General Bridgebury was commanding his men in a different section of england, who were currently fighting a small french invading force, in what could hardly be called a war, over a small tract of nearby farmland, and being the kind of man General Bridgebury was, he would be damned if he wasn’t going to beat back those froggies!

“Damn these confounded artillery guns!” General Bridgebury yelled into the glossy brass mouthpiece of his telephone.

“What do you mean unsuccessful? They’re not bloody cork guns, they’re sixty pounder artillery cannons! How in the blazes have you gone through five hundred rounds of ammunition and not smashed through their front lines yet?” General Bridgebury was beet red.

He poured the last drops of brandy out of a bottle on his desk and set it down next to him. A small pile of empty bottles was growing.

The reason for General Bridgebury’s distress was that in the first days of this squabble of a war, his men had managed to go through approximately five hundred sixty pound artillery shells, only ten of which had managed to hit the enemy's trench. Not only was the news of this great waste of ammunition distressing, but the cost of such a waste threatened to give Cunningham Westingworth Bridgebury a heart attack.

Now, dear reader, you might be wondering how Bridgebury’s men could be so stunningly incompetent , and granted, artillery is rather inaccurate, but a hit to miss ratio of one to ten is outrageous! Well, you see, general Bridgebury’s squadrons were composed of the highest ranking military men, quality over quantity was the idea, but the issue was that at the time, military rank in the British army was not acquired through skill or achievement, but more so through title and capital. Why, many of the men were so unacquainted with warfare and its devices, that they would find it most challenging to hit a milk jug at a mere twenty yards with a rifle, and heaven forbid that they must reload without assistance!

“Fools, wouldn’t know their rear end from their forehead.” Bridgebury grumbled.

“Fredrick! Send the Royal Armory a telegram,” Bridgebury commanded to his telegram operator, Fredrick Zoller.

Frederick Zoller was the son of Anna and Heinrich Zoller, Austrian immigrants to England.

Frederick was a skinny man of around twenty, and bore an uncanny resemblance to the not yet known film funny man, Groucho Marx. Frederick had parted brown hair, thick eyebrows, round glasses, and was often seen smoking a cigar. To further bring Fred’s uncanny resemblance to Groucho, he also possessed a sense of humor that knew no bounds, and criticized without a second thought.

“In need of surplus sixty pound ammunition, stop, field supply low, full stop.” Bridgebury dictated to Frederick.

Frederick began to reply.

“Isn’t surplus the wrong word? Wouldn’t you just say resup--” “Just send the damn message you upstart!’

Bridgebury roared, cutting off Frederick.

“Alrighty then, but don’t blame me when you get brow-beaten for making an unscrupulous demand.” Frederick mumbled under his breath. Bridgebury missed this comment as much as his artillery missed the enemy lines.

Bridgebury got out of his chair and walked over to his bay side window. He looked outwards, and could see the far off flashes of his troops guns. He shook his head and walked back to his desk. He sat down in his chair and sighed. He shuddered. How, just how could it be, that his men, who to his knowledge were the elite, could waste hundreds of thousands of sterling pounds worth of military resources to no avail.

He looked down at his empty brandy glass and frowned. He reached behind him and opened his liquor cabinet; it was empty.

Bridgebury picked up his desk phone and rung up the front line.

“Field commander Trenchman reporting Sir” “Ah yes, Trenchman, tell me how is the front line holding up?”

“It’s holding up spiffingly sir!” Trenchman replied. Bridgebury was filled with relief. For the moment.

Trenchman continued on however.

“Yes, we’ve just had a sterling meal prepared by our most excellent cook, Poulterdam. Now the troops are participating in a most fantastic game of snooker.”

“What!” Bridgebury screamed into the phone.

Frederick looked over his shoulder momentarily.

“Oh sir, please contain yours--” “What in damnation are you doing playing a game of snooker while under enemy fire! Your role as a field commander is to push the frontlines forward and kill the enemy! Not to moderate snooker you troglodyte! Now get your men to their posts and firing on the enemy immediately, or I’ll have you peeling potatoes onboard a cargo freighter faster than you can waste 500 rounds of artillery shells!”

“Sir, there really is no need for such hysterics, you see we have devised an ingenious way of--” “GET THEM TO THEIR POSTS OR I’LL HAVE YOU COURT MARTIALLED AND SHOT BY SUNDOWN YOU BUMBLING PILE OF REDUNDANT PROTOPLASM!” Bridgebury’s face was a deep shade of purple.

He hung up and slammed the phone onto its receiver.

“Frederick, fetch me a bottle of brandy from the cellar.” Bridgebury commanded.

Frederick did so without protest.

Bridgebury opened a box of cigars on his desk and grabbed one. His hands were shaking with anger as he lifted it to his mouth and lit it. As he puffed on his cigar one could almost see smoke coming out of his ears; a fitting picture.

Frederick entered the room holding a large bottle of brandy. As soon as Frederick came to the desk , Bridgebury snatched it out of his hand, pulled the cork out with his teeth and drank half the bottle. Bridgebury slammed the bottle down on his desk, belched and promptly fell asleep.

Day 2 General Cunningham Westingworth Bridgebury looked out his bayside window. This day was slightly less beautiful than the last. The sky was slightly grayed by long wispy clouds and the temperature was slightly colder than the previous day. There was a light fog and the wind was neither mild nor strong.

Yet again, Bridgebury was sitting at his desk. He had faint rings under his eyes and was massaging his forehead as he had a rather nasty headache. The pile of empty brandy bottles beside his desk had doubled since yesterday, and now was starting to grow vertically.

Bridgebury was yet again was speaking to his field commanders through his telephone.

“Has the line moved forward any?” Bridgebury inquired.

“Sir, I regret to inform you that the line has not moved forward at all, as a matter of a fact I do believe it has been pushed backwards a bit by the Frenchies” Field Commander Poundburn reported.

This news did not help Bridgebury’s headache.

“Alright then, well, hold your position and don’t give them an inch!” Bridgebury replied.

He hung up and put the phone back on its fine brass cradle.

Bridgebury continued to rub his aching forehead. It felt as if there were artillery guns pounding away at the back of his skull and eyes.

“Dear god, what ever will I do? What shall become of me if I lose this battle?”

Bridgebury began chewing his nails.

He turned in his chair and looked out the window. He could hear the faint thud of artillery and the crack of rifles. He saw gouts of debris fly into the air and smoke billow.

“What will happen if the French get to me first? They might chop my head off!”

“Might help your headache” Frederick chimed in. He was playing a game of solitaire and smoking a cigar.

“It’s this foul cigar smoke of yours that’s giving me this headache.” Bridgebury replied, whilst pouring a glass of brandy.

He lifted the ornate brandy glass and drank.

“Ahhh…” Bridgebury sighed, licking his lips.

“Hits the spot!”

“Perhaps you ought to let your brandy aim the artillery guns” Frederick added.

Bridgebury chuckled.

Bridgebury picked the phone off of its cradle and with a few spins of the dial, rung up the commander of artillery, Colonel Boot.

Boot was around fifty years old and had seen a countless number of battles in his time. He was bald, had a handlebar moustache, a peg leg, a blind eye, and a prosthetic arm. He was as tough as a cast iron frying pan and about as caring as one too. He always carried with him a large hip flask of the hardest liquor he could find and had a liver that could’ve handled paint thinner, because, as Boot liked to say, “I’ve conditioned it well and good”.

“This is Colonel Boot speaking sir.” A loud explosion could be heard through the phone as Boot spoke.

“Ah, Boot, good, how has our gunnery been?” Bridgebury inquired.

“I regret to inform you sir that it has been atrocious! These pompous idiots can’t seem to grasp the idea of aiming!”

Bridgebury sighed:“I understand. May I get the statistics Colonel?”

“Well we’ve, had fourteen direct hits today, a marked improvement over previous efforts but still poor nonetheless. We’ve received more ammunition, but my men are still having trouble making effective use of it so far. We’ve gone through four hundred eighty three shells so far for the sixty pound main guns, and two hundred twelve for the auxiliary twenty pounders.”

Bridgebury drank some more brandy and replied: “Better than yesterday indeed, I shall send a request to have your troops swapped with veterans.”

“Most excellent sir, it shall improve the qua- OI, DIMWIT! WHAT IN THE BLAZES DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING! I SHALL HAVE YOU COURT MARTIALLED AND SH--” Bridgebury hung up the phone. Boot was a man who only the most idiotic would cross.

“Frederick, send the military a request for veteran artillery crews, I don’t care about rank, just experience.”

Frederick sighed and tapped out the message. He was slightly annoyed, as he had to look away from his game of solitaire.

Bridgebury again looked out his bayside window and shuddered. Within the first days of this battle he had managed to lose a considerable amount of resources, not push back the enemy, and lose ground of his own.

Also, he could swear that the battlefield crept closer and closer to his house.

He turned away from the window and refilled his brandy glass with shaking hands.

Day 3 Twas the third day of the battle, and the weather, relative to the previous days, had soured.

The air was cold and damp, and the sky was now a solid crush of pearly white cloud cover.

Bridgebury’s office, and himself, was degrading. Now, there were two piles of empty brandy bottles on both sides of his desk, the size of each pile was approximately a metre square. There was a large liquor stain on the center of his desk from a spill that had occurred the day before.

Bridgebury was disheveled. He had rings under his eyes, a layer of stubble was growing around his jaw and his hair was uncombed and greasy. His fine, deep green military uniform was dirty and rumpled.

Frederick, Bridgebury’s telegram operator, on the other hand, was doing quite well. He sat at his desk in a burgundy red bath-robe, tweed slippers and a white night cap. Today, as yesterday, he sat at his desk, smoking his cigar, and playing solitaire.

Despite the poor conditions, today would be a change of luck for General Cunningham Westingworth Bridgebury.

The first of these events was a changing of the guard for the artillery crews. The veteran crews requested by Bridgebury had arrived yesterday, and at the moment Bridgebury was talking to Colonel Boot.

“Colonel, how are the veteran crews holding up?” Bridgebury inquired.

“Aside from a degradation in battlefield manners, they’re exceptional. Why just today, the main guns have landed thirty hits, and the auxiliary guns have gotten forty four! I must thank you for your message to the military, and for your aid, this battle will surely be ours now!” Boot ecstatically replied.

Bridgebury nearly jumped out of his chair at such news. Perhaps this battle was not lost yet.

“Excellent, Boot! Excellent! Why by the end of this, I shall make sure that you are handsomely rewarded!” Bridgebury joyously replied.

“You are all too kind general, all too kind.” Boot replied with a hearty chuckle.

Bridgebury hung up the phone and got out of his chair.

“Thank god for this change of luck!”

He stared out his bay side window at the far away gun flashes.

“Yes, I can see those Frenchman retreating like the cowards they are!”

Bridgebury came over to Frederick, glass in hand and put his arm around his shoulder.

“Yes Frederick, soon we’ll have Frenchie in a strangle hold, and as for you my good man, why I’ll make you the richest telegram operator in the country for it!”

He slowly plucked Frederick’s cigar out of his mouth and puffed it. Frederick did not protest, as it seemed to him quite clear that a screw had come loose in Bridgebury’s head, and to Frederick it made sense not to protest against a madman.

Bridgebury confidently strode his way back to his desk. Scruffy, unwashed, uncombed head held high.

He sat back down at his desk and called the front line Field Commander, Poundburn.

“This is Poundburn sir.”

“How’s the front line holding up?”

“Mmm… Better than before, shall I say. The improved artillery support has slowed their advance and the line has held. The men have improved their marksmanship and I have just received a telegram from the troop core saying that they shall be sending reinforcements.”

“Most pleasant news Poundburn. Continue to hold your ground.”

“Yes sir.” Poundburn replied.

Bridgebury leaned back in his chair.

“Perhaps this fight isn’t lost after all...” He mumbled to himself.

Day 4 The weather had turned for the worst now. The sky was now grey and bricked over with dense cloud cover. It was cold and windy out and a dense fog hung over the countryside.

The trend of decay in Fort Allworth had continued. Bridgebury’s desk was now flanked on all sides by brandy bottles. General Bridgebury was just as disheveled looking as his surroundings, his stubble had grown into a short beard and his clothes resembled that of a rumpled burlap sack.

Yet again however, despite his surroundings he was achieving his goal of victory.

Just today Colonel Boot’s artillery had scored nearly a hundred successful hits on the enemy lines, however the main line continued to be pushed back by the enemy, although at a cost to the aggressors.

Bridgebury sat in his office chair looking out his bay-side window at the far off gun flashes of the battle whilst swirling his glass of brandy, when suddenly he heard a loud whistling, growing nearer and nearer. For a moment he was confused, but then he quickly realized the source of this whistling; an artillery shell! In a split second he screamed “duck Frederick damn you!” and dived under his desk. The high explosive artillery shell smashed into the middle of the house with a deafening boom, sending bits of debris and chunks of wood and stone throughout the house, along with the dining room table, that planted itself squarely in the centre of his office. The entire house was filled with dust and smoke. Once the smoke had cleared, and the dust settled, the damage became apparent. Bridgebury and Frederick peeked over their desks and peered out at the destruction. The entire mid section if the house, and part of the cellar, was completely obliterated. There was hardly enough dining room to fit into a sardine tin.

Bridgebury and Frederick breathed in the disaster zone and sighed. The day would still continue as usual.

Day 5 Fort Allworth was in ruins. The entire mid section of the house was destroyed, and the rain had soaked the now exposed woodwork, causing it to begin to rot. It was late and the sun was setting.Bridgebury and Frederick sat around a fire in the office, wrapped in bedsheets to stave off the cold. Bridgebury held the phone in his lap and his service rifle in his hand, awaiting the final call, the declaration of victory!

“It’ll happen any time now frederick, I know it. This phone, this one in my lap will ring, and it will be Poundburn reporting a crushing victory. I know it will happen, I know it.” Bridgebury mumbled to Frederick.

“And you shall make me the richest telegram operator, eh? For my courageous efforts?”

Frederick replied.

Bridgebury chuckled. “Ah yes I shall! How about a toast?”

“How could I refuse?” Frederick replied.

Bridgebury filled two glasses with the last drops of brandy, from his last bottle.

“To victory, wealth and brandy!” Bridgebury toasted.

“Especially to brandy!” Frederick added.

“Indeed.”

They toasted, and the clink of their glasses momentarily obscured the far off whump of artillery. They happily drank their brandy.

The sound of the artillery guns did not fade back however. It was dead silent. Bridgebury realized this and began to smile, suddenly the phone rang. He snatched it off its cradle and raised it to his ear.

“Hello? This is Bridgebury.”

“We’ve won!”

Rouge Megan Ong

"nothing exists without its opposite" - chris crutcher, whale talk

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jn burnett's literary magazine club

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