Pulpmag Issue 5 by Pulp Magazine

MASTHEAD

Matt Dimera Coordinating Editor editor@pulpmag.ca Claire Matthews Managing Editor managingeditor@pulpmag.ca Roland Nguyen Publishing Editor publishing@pulpmag.ca Weronika Slowinski Associate Publishing Editor publishing@pulpmag.ca Connor Doyle Literary Editor writing@pulpmag.ca Taryn Pearcey Stephanie Peters Associate Literary Editor writing@pulpmag.ca Rhea Paez Arts Editor arts@pulpmag.ca

TABLE OF CONTENTS Shandis Harrison 3

Tessa Nickel 22 - 2

Amanda Paananen 4 - 5

Meaghan Hackinen 24 - 29

Mikayla Fawcett & Gabriel Craven 6 - 10

Angela Rebrec 30 - 32

Jared Vaillancourt 11 - 14

Derek Le Beau 33 - 37

Eve Cooper 15

Roxanne Charles 38 - 39

Hira Matharoo 16 - 17

Greg Thomas 40 - 41

J.C. Doyle 18

J.C. Doyle 42

Mikayla Fawcett 19

Shandis Harrison 43

Cody Lecoy 20 - 21

pulp Standing Committee: Alex Hawley Jessica Lar-Son Simon Massey Geoff Nilson Tabitha Swanson

Andres Salaz Shandis Harrison Associate Arts Editor arts@pulpmag.ca

Interested in submitting to pulp? Check out our guidelines online or on Facebook, and submit to submissions@pulpmag.ca

Marlow Gunterman Web Editor support@pulpmag.ca

Cover: Andres Salaz

Kylie Mantei Associate Web Editor support@pulpmag.ca

pulp is owned and operated by Kwantlen University students, published under Polytechnic Ink Publishing Society.

Victoria Almond Operations Manager ops@runnermag.ca

Views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily shared by the editors.

Visit our website at www.pulpmag.ca

Arbutus 3710/3720 12666 72nd Avenue Surrey, BC V3W 2M8 778-565-3801

art

SHANDIS HARRISON

poetry

AMANDA PAANANEN

Mitochondrial Eve Listen youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re on your own now mom says and points to the blank pages before history to what it meant to leave Eden The question remains how many angels can dance on the head of a micropipette? And man the theories they come up with these days in this economy I mean who even gives a shit about Hobbes anymore No oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s made it on their own Not ever

Action Potential Not even the spring back snap click sound of fingers fingering the keyboard could distract her from the momentary moments of sedentary panic patterns set-in like a sunburn through floral print memories etched in granite radiation shadows and regrettable tattoos I’m stuck in a different strata she whispers all charcoal tongue and fossil lungs that punctuate the sentence with equilibrium but sounds more like a dial tone For instance when he’s not around she turns the volume up constantly checks her phone When he is she’s somehow lonelier And yet when they climax at each synapse it shines like God’s echo one billion neural networks that build bridges and speak without words

GABRIEL CRAVEN MIKAYLA FAWCETT

interview LISA KING

art

CHARIS AU

interview LISA KING

art

CHARIS AU

prose

JARED VAILLANCOURT

FICTION The Blue Night’s Moon Part 2

Continued from Part 1, published in pulp Issue 4. Jacob grew restless in the medical bay, despite knowing he’d soon be sitting behind his gun station, staring into space. A few days after his dream of Melissa, the medics came by with their screens and asked him to identify colours and shapes. Keets visited regularly. Occasionally he would sneak in an extra nutrient bar or two from the galley and get into loud shouting matches with the medics over their patients’ dietary needs. “A little extra boost ain’t gonna kill them,” Keets growled at the shorter medic, who stood his ground. “It damned well might,” the medic retorted, snatching the bars from Keets’s hands. “Those nanites are powered by glucose. Same as living cells. Pumping more into their blood at this phase will accelerate—” “So we’ll heal faster?” Svetlana interrupted. “Be out of here faster?” The medic’s face turned red. “In this room, I am God.” He pointed a finger at Keets. “What I say and do means the difference between a living shipmate and a dead one. And I say, no more of these.” With a final wave of the offending food, he banished Keets from his kingdom. For the day, at least. Jacob smirked at Svetlana. “Full service, dinner, and a show.” The next day the medics allowed Jacob and Svetlana up to the gym. They ran the treadmills, lifted weights and hit the bags. His muscles tingled by the end of it. “Aren’t you convinced?” Jacob sighed. He laid back as the medic threw the blanket over his chest. “I thought we had a good workout. Can’t we sleep in our own bunks tonight?” Complaining was useless, and he knew it. The medic spouted a rehearsed line about surveillance and opened the doors for visiting hours.

prose

JARED VAILLANCOURT

After the day’s visits, which included both their buddy-system partners and an animated Keets describing, in graphic detail, an engineering mishap he’d witnessed, the medics returned with their screens. “Now for the psychological part of your rehab,” a taller medic said, smiling, her ruby lips pulling thin. Jacob shrugged and looked to Svetlana before another medic pulled the curtain between them. “I’m fine.” Jacob smiled back. “A little upset we lost a gun, but fine.” “Have you been experiencing any dizziness, pain, or nausea?” Her fingers danced across a data pad. Tap-tap-tap. “No.” “Have you been feeling drowsy or having hallucinations?” Jacob almost laughed. “No. Why would I?” The medic’s smile faltered. “Have you been having any nightmares recently?” “No...” Jacob paused. “Well, a few days ago I dreamt about… someone.” Tap-tap-tap. “Someone on this ship?” “No - yes. I mean, Officer Nightingale.” Tap-tap-tap. “And no, it wasn’t that kind of dream.” “I see.” Tap-tap-tap. “Was this dream before or after she visited you?” Jacob blinked. She hadn’t… “After.” “And what happened in this dream?” The medic gave him a look. “Nothing,” Jacob hissed with the exasperation of a teenager mocking a sarcastic parent. “I mean, she just stood there. She said I knew her.” This drew a pout from the medic, her fingers aflutter. “Do you? Know Officer Nightingale?” “No, we’ve never met.” She stayed on Tethys. He was sure she did. “Interesting.” The medic rolled up her data pad and smiled. “Thank you, Gunner Kerning. Rest and get better.” As she rolled her screen away, Jacob reached over and pushed back the curtain. “-said she needed-” Svetlana stopped. She and the medic looked back at Jacob. He tried a smile, but the medic frowned and pulled the curtain back in place. Jacob leaned back against his pillow, his stomach empty. The next day the crew chief was in for visiting hours. Jacob was surprised by how amicable the dour woman could be. “Then I’ll expect you back on shift, day after tomorrow.” She stood up and straightened her uniform. “You’re looking well, Gunner. How are you taking it?” “Ma’am?” “Having a disruptor explode in your face.” Jacob smiled. “It’s all good, ma’am.” He saluted. She turned towards the door. “Ma’am, wait. May I ask you for a favour, ma’am?” The crew chief sighed. “Yes?” “In my bunk, there’s a video recorder-” “Consider it done,” the crew chief replied. An hour later, a deckhand entered with a small recorder. “It’s for a letter home,” he said. Svetlana shrugged and rolled to her side. Jacob turned away from her, powered up the recorder and hid it under his pillow, pointing it at the door.

The next morning he looked at the recording, but the images didn’t make sense. He could see Melissa on the flexi’s screen, but the shadow she cast was misshapen. When he focused on it, it blurred. The only sounds were Svetlana’s snoring and his own gentle breathing. Melissa reached out. He remembered her fingers against his cheek, and her saying, Think about me.

Jacob had complied. After all, they had dated for over a year. Back on Tethys. Where she stayed. He remembered now. Melissa Nightingale was a farmer’s daughter, born and raised on Tethys. She was shy, small and more than a little awkward. She’d been the one to first ask Jacob, who came by to service the machines, if he had a girlfriend. Was it love? Jacob couldn’t remember. He backed the recording up and started again. Jacob and Svetlana were back in the armoury when word came in about another murder. Keets was in a sweat when he burst in. “Same as before,” the big man panted. “Medic. Officers found ‘im down in the storage bay.” “Where was his partner?” Svetlana stood up and tossed her tool aside. “Don’t know.” Keets took a seat. “Capt’n’s got soldiers searchin’ th’ ship. I got here before th’ lockdown could be called-” An alarm blazed. “Attention,” the Captain’s staccato voice barked over every comm. “I’m placing the Enigma under security lock-down. All crews are to remain in their locations until the murderer can be apprehended.” The doors to the armoury hissed shut, their panels glowing red. “Keets, what was in the storage bay?” Jacob asked. “Medicine, gauze, bio-tools… all sorts a’ doctor-type stuff.” Keets leaned in close. “I heard a rumour from Officer Johnson. Says a buncha pods a’ artificial blood were in there, too. All a’ them smashed up an’ spilled all over.” “I thought the killer didn’t spill blood,” Jacob said. Svetlana gave him a look. “I thought you were asleep for that conversation.” “I thought the same of you, Svetty.” Svetlana blushed. A knock on the door. Svetlana and Keets jumped, both reaching for the charged rifles on the racking to the left. “Wait, what if it’s the soldiers?” Jacob asked. “Then they’d know the pass code.” The knocking came again. “Jacob! It’s me!” “Nightingale!” Keets shouted. He lowered his gun and beamed. “What are you doing out an’ about? There’s a killer on th’ loose.” He reached for the door panel. Svetlana relaxed and tossed her gun on the work bench. Jacob grabbed Keets’s wrist. “No,” he whispered. “Don’t do that.” Keets blinked. “She’s out there in th’ open, Jacob.” “And she’s a techie. She should know the code, too.” Keets turned to Svetlana, who was reaching for her rifle again. The knocking on the door grew more insistent. “Maybe she’s in a panic?” Svetlana asked. “Forgot the code? Then she’d override the… lock…” At this, Keets and Jacob backed away from the door, rifles ready. Knock-knock-knock. “Jacob, it’s me! Let me in! Please - let me in!” Jacob inhaled. “Melissa, listen - I’m sorry. I can’t open the door.” Everyone tensed as something heavy slammed into the door. Keets and Svetlana took a step back. “The soldiers will find me!” “If you’re innocent, then that’s not a problem.” Svetlana gave Jacob a look. “You don’t seriously think she’s the murderer?” He lowered his rifle. “Melissa Nightingale is a kind and timid woman. She’d never hurt a fly, nor hang around anyone who would.” The knocking on the door grew softer. “That’s why we broke up. I joined the navy. I became a gunner on the Enigma, and she stayed on Tethys.” For a moment, the

prose

JARED VAILLANCOURT

knocking stopped. Keets looked at the door. “I thought th’ two a’ you came aboard at the same time.” Another heavy slam echoed through the armoury. Jacob felt sweat bead along his brow as the three of them tensed, their rifles humming ready. The heavy slam echoed three more times, then stopped. “Fine, I’m not Melissa,” Melissa’s sweet voice muttered. “Please let me in.” “What?” Keets demanded. The door heaved with another thump. “I’m starving!” Melissa’s voice screamed. “Let me in! Let me feed!” “Feed off what?” Svetlana shouted. “Calm down, tell us what you-” “No, no, please - not the soldiers! I can’t! Not so many at once!” There was a sound like soft paws on metal. “I promise, I won’t take it all! Please! I need more!” Another heavy slam. “Now!” Jacob blinked. His stomach rumbled. He was feeling so very, very hungry- “I’m not opening this door.” “No! No time! Feed! I must feed! Open this door!” “Jacob!” Svetlana’s hand held his shoulder tight. Jacob blinked; his rifle was lowered and pointed to the deck, and his free hand was halfway to the control panel. His mouth was getting dry, and his stomach rumbled. If he could get to the mess hall, if he could just feed... feed... “I… was just… the mess…” Jacob backed away. The three of them took five large paces away from the door and aimed their rifles. “What’s going on, Melissa?!” “You won’t understand!” The voice on the other side of the door sounded strained, forced. “I need… No time! No time! Let me in, please, I… I can’t…” Then they heard another sound - hard boots on metal. “Jacob. Jacob! Jacob!” He closed his eyes. For a brief moment, he was standing on a beach. Strange, curving rock arches encircled his post on the white sands. The waters were inky black and calm. He looked up at a beautiful, pristine moon glowing brightly overhead in the almost starless sky. It was unlike anything Jacob had ever seen: smooth, wonderful, and so very blue. Someone screamed. Jacob, Keets, and Svetlana gasped as voices shouted and cursed. A dozen ion bolts rang out in unison. The door to the armoury buckled slightly, and glowed a gentle red. The false-colour image of the nebula glowed across Jacob’s screen. He liked looking out into space, imagining the worlds he’d yet to see, the civilizations he’d yet to meet. He started to swing his gun forward at the sound of the crew chief’s approaching boots. “That’s right, Gunner,” she clipped. “Home’s that-a-way.” It had been a week. Jacob couldn’t believe the recording he’d shown the Captain. What he saw on the screen made him cringe. Without “Melissa” aboard, he suspected whatever psychic “wool’d been pulled o’er our eyes”, as Keets had put it, was lifted and gone. “Anything else?” the Captain had asked him. Jacob described the beach. “Odd. Why would it share that with you?” Jacob couldn’t answer that. In an hour, his shift would be over. In another two, he’d join Svetlana in the armoury and clean weapons with her. And in another thirty-three thousand, they’d be back safely within humanity’s sphere of influence, headed towards Tethys, towards home, and maybe the real Melissa Nightingale. A daughter of Tethys. Not a child of the blue night’s moon.

art

EVE COOPER

art

HIRA MATHAROO

Permutations 8’ X 9’ Mixed Media Graphite and foam coare boards

Hira’s art explores the patterns and rhythms of circular forms within 2D and 3D space. The forms are permutations of the cast shadows and of their overall arrangement, while the patterns and process of rearrangement create a learning experience and new visual vocabulary for her art. The forms create an illusion as they appear to recede back and forth into the flat walls, however, this is most successful when done at a particular angle. Hira works with a set of traditional methods, using strings to make perspective grids and ‘digital projection mapping’ that will help to create a better illusion. She is interested in creating deep atmospheric spaces that allow her to conceptualize various geometrical forms within them.

poetry

J.C. DOYLE

Submerge After I trip, I find an ocean on the stairwell, and swim inside it like a wounded sailor, limbs akimbo, fingers fanned. Breath hangs, caught on tonsils I choke and sink, to the point where light does not penetrate. To the spot between cobalt and black. My lungs compress, pill-sized, heart rate slows, ba dump going under.

Wake, face to the floor, at the bottom of the stairs, with a rug-burnt chin and broken ribs.

flash fiction

MIKAYLA FAWCETT

Inland Last night, the upstairs had a leak and now there’s a dripping stain above my bed. Never could stay away from water long. The woodlice recall their marine cousins. They grow fat and bold. Seagulls have taken to perching on the roof and nesting in my window box. I have to move further inland. This morning the kitchen sink began to drip. I tighten it up (I’ve had some practice). Since I started working the stain’s spread and gone green as an algae bloom. Half an hour’s scraping kills the colour but it’ll be back. I have to wash up. The bathroom sink’s dripping too. The water comes away from my hands smelling of brine. Better fix it now. Crouched, I spot a crab by the floorboards next to the toilet. It’s the size of my thumbnail, freckled green-grey. It ought to be under a pebble by the ocean. It scuttles into my palm. I squeeze clean, breathable water from my other hand into a bowl for it. From there, the crab watches me work. I have to move further inland. I haven’t been near the ocean in years. Must have brought it with me.

art

CODY LECOY

Left: Infared Oil Detection 40’ X 60’ Acrylic on canvas

Right: Within our Presence 3’ X 5’ Acrylic on canvas

20 Winning submissions for the Vancouver Airport’s annual YVR Art Foundation Scholarship

2013

2012

art

TESSA NICKEL

Topography of Memory 8’ X 9’ Digital Photo Print, Metal Rod

This project began with a focus on form and materials, but soon became something closer to Tessa’s heart. She worked with a torch to create a landscape over a photo of a glacier that she and her father climbed four years ago. She used this photo because of its interesting sense of balance, and because it doesn’t distract from the rods she created. Through the use of this photo, the piece became centered on the time she spent with her father and her effort to recapture that memory. The glacier has since changed, melted, and the landscape no longer looks like it does in the image. So too has Tessa’s memory faded of this place, though the emotions it stirs will always remain in her mind. The piece reflects the duality of moment and memory.

prose

MEAGHAN HACKINEN

FICTION BLUEBERRY INN

It’s pouring out. After a hard rain, earthworms come up to the surface. Sam and I always go looking for them; I collect their wriggling bodies for my mom’s garden in an old ice cream pail, but Sam just sniffs. Once I saw him try to eat one. He stuck out his tongue, touched his nose to the wet asphalt, and sucked it up. I guess it didn’t taste great because he spat it out and I haven’t seen him go for one since. Dad’s in the kitchen making coffee. Not what my mom would call coffee – he’s using the powdered stuff. We don’t have a coffee machine here in the motel room so he scoops gritty powdered coffee into a mug and shoves it in the microwave. Today I’m going to experiment with putting stuff in the microwave. I’ve been thinking of things all morning: a granola bar, an apple, a fruit roll-up, a gum stick. We don’t have a microwave at home. We’re here on Salt Spring for business. That’s what my dad told the little man behind the front desk. His shiny bald spot and overalls made him look like a train conductor, but I didn’t say so. I don’t usually talk to strangers. Dad thought it might be fun for me to come with him this weekend. He travels all the time – Kamloops, Kelowna, Cranbrook, Kimberly – but I never get to go with him. I once ran down the driveway and up our street as he pulled away, like I’ve seen in the movies. But he didn’t stop or even look back. When I got home, my mom saw that I was trying hard not to cry and promised I could go away with him sometime, so I guess this is sometime. He’ll be busy working on the phone system at the airport this weekend, but he let me bring my Playstation so I won’t get bored. “You know what to do, right kiddo?” “Yup. Don’t leave the property, don’t answer the door, and I can have whatever I want for a snack.” “You got it. Hey, you have your tool belt?” “Yeah.” I used the screwdriver to tighten up the table leg this morning. “Then you’re all set.” He takes a look in the mirror and fixes some out-of-place hairs. His hair and moustache are sort of a brown-blond, lighter in the summertime. He looks like he’s been sailing – each strand wants to go in a different direction. I guess he doesn’t like this, because I always catch him trying to comb it down, instill a sense of order. He picks up his toolkit and walks to the car, ducks his head getting in. Sometimes I wish I was as tall as my dad. During lunch hour at the library I looked for books about how to grow taller, but I couldn’t really find much, except a few pictures of the tallest woman alive in the Guinness Book of World Records. Sandy Allen, 7’7”—which is pretty tall, for a girl. I think I’d be happy at an even six feet. I look in the mini-fridge: nothing good. I spin around on my feet like a rock star and pick up the game controller. If I could I would invent my own Playstation game: worlds within worlds and inside the cobwebbed chambers of a lonely castle I would be able to actually pick up the rubies and gems hiding

inside a treasure chest and hold the precious stones, glittering like tiny stars, in my own two digital hands. I’d develop a game where the last level doesn’t lead to the closing credits, a reel of Japanese game developers whose names I can’t pronounce, but the start of a brand new world, a new quest. I’m pretty good at games. I’m all right at reading, and school, and sports, but those things are usually so boring. We read these dumb books in school; Ms. De Franco sits up at the front and goes on in her sleepy voice while I get a sore butt from sitting cross-legged on the scratchy gray carpet. I try not to move too much because if she sees me squirming like a worm she’ll call on me for sure, and I hate reading to the class. I try to do the funny character voices like my dad, but I’m not hilarious. I must sound pretty dumb because Ms. De Franco always cuts me off by the second or third line of dialogue. I’ve already got this game figured out: you just hit the spiny monsters right below the belly button. It’s their weak spot. Not very clever, I think, to give them all the same weakness. I microwave a granola bar – tasty – and toss in another disc. It’s still raining. If I could I would get out of this lousy twobit motel. I’d buy an Orange Crush with the dollar I keep safe under the insole of my sneaker and chug it down while I strolled into town. I’d be wearing a plaid shirt of my dad’s, tucked in at the back, my tool belt around my waist. If anybody had a problem with their door not closing all the way or a broken desk, I’d come on in and fix it for them. They’d know to ask, even though I’m only ten, because I’d be wearing a grown-up tool belt and I know how to use every one of the tools better than anyone in my class. But I’m not allowed to bring it to school after Ms. De Franco found the Exacto blade. “Someone’s gonna get sliced open!” she said, and locked the entire thing in her desk until my mom came and picked it up. I stick one eyeball, then the other, up to the peephole. All morning I’ve been waiting for someone to come to the door, just so I can stand on my tippy toes at the peephole. But no one comes. Brr-ring, brr-ring, brr-ring. I answer the phone. It’s my dad. “Just checking in. Had lunch yet?” I tell him I microwaved a granola bar, and he asks if I took it out of the wrapper. Of course I did. “You want to grab a bite? My client gave me a couple of gift cards for a restaurant here in Ganges. Famous for their crab burger.” I tell him I want to go, even though crab burger sounds disgusting. Do they put it in the bun whole, legs hanging out, blood and ketchup splattered everywhere? Crustaceans don’t bleed though, I remember. And they’d probably chop it up or something, but it still grosses me out. “Good. I’ll be there in an hour. Hold tight!” I wait. The digital clock on the microwave counts off minutes, but he doesn’t show up. I spy out the peephole for a while: the grumpy-looking maid pushes a cart of towels across the parking lot with one hand. She’s holding a cigarette with the other. It’s not raining anymore, and I think about going for a walk. My dad will arrive soon though, and if I’m not here I’ll get in big trouble for sure. I don’t have a key, so I can’t leave even if I want to because I won’t be able to get back in. It’s after dark when Dad pulls in. I fell asleep, and my eyes can’t adjust fast enough to read the microwave clock before he unlocks the door. “Wake up, Sage – I brought pizza!” He curls the zeds on the end of his tongue when he says pizza. He always does this, but I know he’s trying to make it sound extra special this time. “Where were you? Why didn’t you come back for lunch?” “I’m sorry. I was checking out of the site when the ground manager called me back. Apparently, the guy in before me really screwed up the wiring. I had to spend all afternoon rewiring the place.” He opens the lid of the pizza box and the room fills with pepperoni smell. “I’m hungry, and I don’t want pizza.”

prose

MEAGHAN HACKINEN

“Well, what do you want?” “I want a crab burger. Like you said we were going to have.” This is a lie, but he can’t tell. Maybe it will make him feel bad enough that we’ll go out for dinner instead. “Not tonight. Let’s see what’s on TV. Or we could play a game?” Dad never plays video games – he can’t figure out which character is his on screen. “Can we go for a walk? I want to see Ganges.” We drove in to get groceries last night, but it was already dark. As we passed the harbour I watched the mast lights bobbing back and forth way up high like giant mutant lightning bugs as we drove up the hill to Blueberry Inn. “Not tonight. Tomorrow though – I promise.”

Dad puts the milk and Raisin Bran out for me. I’m hardly awake when he leaves, whispering “See you later” in my ear. It’s freezing when I get out of bed – the blue wallpaper looks like Arctic ice. I pull on my neon green Goofy sweatshirt and find a bowl for breakfast. I thought we’d hang out; I thought we’d do stuff. I sit at the table and think about all the things I’d rather be doing, like swimming in the ocean, even though it’s probably freezing. If I could I would make myself impermeable to cold and dive off the dock behind our motel, disappearing underwater. Ms. De Franco told us that some people can hold their breath for five or six minutes. I’d hold my breath and kick down, down, down to the sea floor and look up at the hulls of boats washing about on the surface. The seals would be curious about me, wary at first, but once I showed them what a good swimmer I am they’d come right up. We’d play hide-and-seek in the kelp garden and I’d get to feel their slippery soft fur as they swam up beside me. I’d be one of them. My dad would discover that I’m missing and he’d search like a maniac, but the grumpy maid would tell him that I’m out in the bay, playing with the seals, and he’d be proud of me for being able to stay under for so long. I turn my game on and get started on another quest. I get up to go pee and see the door ajar. Maybe I can put a sneaker in that space to keep it open, so I can go outside and hunt for worms. I wish Sam was here. This boring motel room would be so much better if I had someone to wrestle with. So what if he’s a dog? We first got Sam on Labour Day weekend. Right after, my dad took Sam and me out in Gramp’s old rowboat. I’d just watched Pirates of the Caribbean and decided I wanted to be just like Jack Sparrow, minus the bad hair. The first thing Sam did, since he was a puppy and didn’t understand water, was leap in the creek. I dove in to save him even though it was cold, and we swam to shore together. Dad said I did the right thing and wrapped us both in his jacket. We went back early, but it’s still a good memory. Sometimes I bring Sam to the school field after class. He runs around like a loony tune, but gets away with it because he’s just a dog. Other kids join us, but never girls. I’m secretly happy that I’m the only girl there, even though I know the only reason the guys want to play with me is because of Sam. I miss Sam and my mom. I stuff my sneaker in the door and walk out barefoot. I’d rather be barefoot, except it’s cold outside and the ground is wet. I pull my hood on tighter and push my hair out of my eyes. I can’t go far without shoes. I bend down – a sprinter on the race track – and push off, dashing around the L-shaped building. I pick my knees up like I’m jumping hurdles, feel the roughness of the pavement on my toes. I leap over a gaping pothole. Pink worms inch along the pavement, but there’s no point in collecting them so I keep going. Behind the building is the part of the motel they don’t want you to see: overgrown blackberries, waterlogged newspapers on the ground. They should have called this place Blackberry Inn. I feel like a spy. On tip toes, I sneak around the backside of the building. I duck under each window; you never know who could be watching. Soon I recognize my shoe in the door; I’ve made it full-circle. I see the pop machine and walk over. I don’t have any money, but I’d really like a soda. I drop to my stomach, just for a second, and peer under the machine. Sometimes fat people drop money and can’t bend down to pick up their change, but today there’s nothing except spiderwebs.

I go back to the motel room to clean my feet in the bathtub. Hot water numbs my toes, but I’m tough enough to stand it. I put my socks on and look out the window to see if I can find the maid or the little bald man again. They must be inside. Maybe I can just go get another key from the bald man. I saw a whole wall of them behind his desk, and he knows who I am from yesterday. I’ll tell him that I’m supposed to meet my dad at that famous crab burger place and I need to lock up before I leave, and he’ll hand me the key. No problem. But once I arrive at the front desk, things turn out pretty bad. “A key? How old are you?” “I...ten. I’m ten.” “Your dad left a ten-year-old alone all day?” “He just went out for a little bit.” “Where’d he go?” “To get some coffee. But I’m supposed to meet him.” “Tell him to come see me when he gets back.” I don’t think he’s going to give me the key so I retreat, stumbling over my tongue. I left the door open with my shoe in it, but now it’s wide open. I sneak up closer and see the maid straightening out the bed. Maybe she’ll give me a key. “A key? Por que no?” I want to ask her what that means, but she just hands me a key from the long chain. “You have big plans, little niña?” She winks and I see her wrinkles crinkle around her eyes. A silver cross hangs from her neck. Maybe she just looks like she’s in a bad mood all the time. Maybe it’s her secret to get out of talking to annoying people. “No. I just want to see the town.” “Ah, the harbour. Es bonito, muy bonito. You will see.” I grab my tool belt and my dad’s jacket in case the wind picks up. I pull it on over my Goofy hoodie, but the navy blue sleeves dangle too loose, so I scrunch them up to get my hands out. I stuff the key under the insole of my shoe.

“YOUR DAD LEFT A TEN-YEAR-OLD ALONE ALL DAY?” “HE JUST WENT OUT FOR A LITTLE BIT.” My dad told me that there’s only one main road on the island. I recognize the curve of the road going down to the harbour and set my mental compass in that direction. There’s not much shoulder on the side so I balance on the white line. One foot in front of the other, I walk a tightrope over bubbling lava. I’ve always found it amazing how air has a smell. Here it stinks like rotting seaweed, but at home it smells like wet dog and my mom’s incense. She burns it to mask the scent, but the two don’t mix. On hot lunch days the whole school smells like wieners, and out on the school field it smells like wet grass, at least in the spring. Down by the water I pick up on something warm and cinnamony. It’s a woman in a red apron selling elephant ears. If I could I would buy an elephant ear from her. I’d eat it all to myself because in our house I never get to have things just for me. I’ve always got to share with someone. While eating my elephant ear I’d sit on those big boulders, close to the water, and kids playing hacky sac in the parking lot would ask me to join in. I’d shrug my shoulders because it’s not a big deal, and step into their circle. I’m pretty good at hacky sac and they’d notice, and I’d tell them all about what it’s like to live in the big city where our library is so huge you can get lost in it and hundreds of people walk by every minute when you’re downtown. After a while I’d tell them I have to get going, and one of the guys would say I should come back and visit.

prose

MEAGHAN HACKINEN

But I have no money, just the loonie in my shoe, which isn’t enough. While I’m figuring out how much more I’d need to buy an elephant ear, the lady behind the little counter asks me why my jacket is so long, and I feel my face burn up. Some teenagers ride by on bikes, and I want to die because now they’re looking at me too. Glaring, like I’ve done something wrong. One of them has a lip ring and I wonder why anyone would want a hole punched through their lip, but also if my mom would let me have one. My dad probably wouldn’t notice. My only choice is to keep walking. The streets are lined with bright houses and shops with big windows full of neat stuff. One has a display full of old nets and glass floats, stuffed seagulls dangling from the ceiling by fishing line. I catch my reflection in the mirror and realize I do look funny; my legs are bare, the windbreaker is too big, and I forgot to brush my hair. I pull the hood over my head, even though it isn’t raining and I know it won’t really make me invisible. Behind my reflection there’s a bunch of navigational charts and compasses and GPS systems. My dad had a compass that time we went out in the dinghy with Sam, and he showed me how to use it even though we didn’t need it. I want to go in and see if I can find one like his, but my mom always reminds me not to touch stuff in shops because I might break something. A man walks towards me and all I can think about is whether or not he brushes his Santa Claus beard. “Ahoy there matey! Would ye like to step aboard?” “Come inside?” “Arr matey, this store’s the place for landlubbers like ye-self!” I wonder if he always talks like this or if he’s just doing it to be funny. But I step inside, since it’s the polite thing to do. “Can I see ye compasses?” I ask, imitating his pirate-speak. “For certain! We’ve got some special ones here. Older than ye, I suspect.” He walks to the cabinet and I think he’s going to pull one out, but instead he reaches for a carved wooden box. He places it on the counter. The wood is cracked and ancient, like it’s a survivor from a great storm. “Open it,” he says. I unclick the tiny hinge and pull up the lid. Inside is a huge compass, rimmed in gold. “It’s beautiful,” I say, wishing I had a better word. “Aye, she is. ‘Twas my father’s father’s—a great seaman. Ever been t’sea?” “No.” I don’t think my trip in the dinghy counts. “Can you use a compass?” He lifts it out and passes it to me with both hands. I just hold it for a second, to get used to the weight. It’s not heavy, but it’s really old and important and I don’t want to drop it. Now I remember: you’ve got to rotate the compass until the needle points north. I take a few paces. My footsteps resonate on the hardwood floors like I’m walking the plank. I look up. “Stupendous! Now, which way is east?” the bearded sailor asks. I rotate my body to face east, take a couple steps, and stop before I crash into a wall of paddles. “Aye! You’ll be a great seaman – I mean – seawoman, one day!” I hope so. Is a seawoman the same as a pirate? It sounds better. “Witnessed the harbour yet?” he asks. I passed it, but he says I can’t just walk by. I need to get up close to see all the ships. “Are thar real proper ships?” I ask. “Of course thar be! Go’on, take a look for ye-self! It’s due west.” I take one last look at the compass and head out. I already know where it is, but it’s more fun with directions. Out on the street I feel taller. Heel toe, heel toe, I walk between shops. Some are bringing in their signs, so it must be getting late. I reach down and feel the outline of the key in my shoe, just to make sure it’s still there, and remind myself to get back soon. If my dad gets back before me, he’ll be mad for sure; he

said not to leave the property. But he also said we’d go for lunch yesterday, and what am I supposed to do? We’re taking the ferry home tomorrow – this is my last chance to see the ships. I hope the front desk man doesn’t mention me. I wonder if I can hide from him until checkout. My head is so full of thought bubbles. Looking out over the water, all I see are masts and sails, and suddenly it’s impossible to think about the bald man or my angry dad because these boats in front of me tell a thousand stories. I walk down the narrow dock between tall ships and yachts that shine like pearls. I make up stories about each of the ships as I slowly amble by. This one is owned by a great baron from Germany. He lives aboard with his four dalmatians and a deckhand he picked up in Haiti. The two men play chess every evening, and plot their course around Cape Horn. As I approach the end of the wharf I see a tall figure: it’s Dad. I decide to run, beat him back to the room, but he turns and I’m frozen mid-step. “Remember the rules?” he says. His mouth is a firm line, but his eyes look worried. “It wasn’t fair! You weren’t there.” “You knew I’d be busy.” I stare into the dark water. “Ralph said you came looking for the key.” So that’s the conductor’s name, Ralph. Wouldn’t have guessed. “I’m sorry.” And I am. I’m sorry for making him worry, but I’m not sorry I left the room. I think I’ve figured something out: it’s the same between me and my dad as it is between Sam and I. All day, I go to school and my dad goes off to work. Sam waits for me to come home and play, and I wait for Dad. If I arrive home late, Sam is antsy and annoyed with me, just like I am with my dad. And just as Sam can’t hold a grudge against me (my mom says it’s because dogs have small brains) I can never keep one against Dad. “Hey, do you know who owns this boat?” I ask, pointing at a yellow-rimmed schooner. “Well, I’m not certain, but I heard the owner is a wealthy rancher from Chicago.” “They don’t have ranches in Chicago.” “Sure they do – on the outskirts. He raises llamas and prize partridges. He’s here to negotiate a contract with one of the local farms. Think we should buy a llama?” “Llamas spit. But maybe a duck,” I say. I know he’s being silly now – the boat isn’t enormous like Noah’s Ark. It couldn’t hold a farm of animals. But I don’t care. He tells the best stories. “I heard his wife wears diamonds on both ring fingers, so that no matter which way she’s facing, they’re always visible.” “She’s got so much hair that it pours down her shoulders and falls in the ocean,” I add. “Sometimes sea snails crawl up it, because they mistake her hair for kelp!” We both laugh. Behind the headlands a white and blue ferry appears, chugging steadily across the darkening horizon. It spews a smoky cloud of exhaust from an enormous top deck pipe, like a blue whale spouting air from its blowhole. “Do we have to go back tomorrow?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. “But we’ve got all evening to explore.” “We’re two ship-wrecked sailors,” I say. “And I’ve got a satchel full of stolen gold coins,” he winks. “They belonged to the wealthy Jamaican prince. Ready to hit the town?” “Yes. But,” I pause and gaze pointedly at the approaching ferry, “The pirates are coming!” I turn on my heels and sprint toward dry land. My footsteps echo on top of the wooden wharf beams, and I hear the heavier clunk-clunk-ca-clunk of my dad’s work boots as he closes the distance between us.

poetry

ANGELA REBREC

Black Sheep You’ve been eating your own skin for years. It’s a fact you’ve tried to ignore, like Fukushima or the cloud cover that stains the sky grey all winter. Your Gs and Cs connected like a 6-hour delay at Heathrow, and when you finally arrived, no one wanted to pick you up. Face it. You don’t fit in. You’re spilled coffee on the rug, the chipped mug at the back of the cupboard. Radiation still seeps into the sea, and when it rains it devours your blistered skin. Whose fault is it? They don’t have the guts to tell you to your face, but fingers are out and pointing.

Long Gone Try to forget the meals you ache for, the hands that rolled meatballs, quartered potatoes into wedges. Things move slowly in the mouth now. The bush basil that grew in the courtyard wall knew exactly who you were. Yes. Those women are long gone. Their atoms are leaching back into the nourishing earth, and as much as you try to digest these facts, sometimes it all gets stuck in the esophagus. Yes. We know what that ache is for.

poetry

ANGELA REBREC

Persephone and Eurydice Come to Definite Conclusions The instant both women make eye contact the covenant is understood. Music deep in the heart remains unspoken like the rests between notes. The voice forgets its own body: a bee that hums its monody in the Asphodel, the robe hem that grazes the bee. Husbands and arbiters engage in masterful negotiations, conditions are applied and always the heart mourns for blossoms in winter, lyrics to accompany the lyre. Flowers plucked from a meadow or vipers entwined around the foot, little differs in the Underworld, a winding chiasmus through the pomegranate grove leads them back to the beginning: a covenant well understood. The brides acknowledge each other in passing, with a taciturn roll of their eyes.

graphic novel DEREK LE BEAU

CHECK OUT THE REST OF DEREK’S GRAPHIC NOVEL AT PULPMAG.CA

graphic novel DEREK LE BEAU

art

DEREK LE BEAU

Self Portrait

4â&#x20AC;&#x2122; X 7â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Digital Video Installation on Foam-Core

This piece explores identity; both the fragmented nature of the digital imagery and the separated, suspended foam-core are intended to reference a postmodern perspective on individuality. Each person in society does not fit into a specific label because we learn, we build ourselves based on our upbringing and how the world affects us each individually. This installation is purposely separated as a means of representing this. The digital video itself is filmed from different angles around my head; this, and the suspended fragments, is a reference to the Cubist movement. An aspect of cubist work was that it would include multiple perspectives instead of being limited to one viewpoint.

art

ROXANNE CHARLES

Left: Unnoticed Dirt, The Artist

Right: The Forbid us Dance Projection Woven cedar, Digital film

Roxanne Charles is a mixed media artist of Straight Salish decent and is currently working in a variety of forms of media such as silver engraving, cedar weaving, and sculpture. Her work explores themes that directly affect her as an aboriginal woman. Themes that commonly run through her work include culture, nature, spirituality, the environment, identity, hybridity, violence (lateral, systemic, and domestic), exploitation, and intergenerational trauma. She views herself as a contemporary storyteller whose goal is to document many of the problems that plague aboriginal communities today and to increase the understanding of spirituality, culture, and contemporary issues.

poetry

GREG THOMAS

A Slut for Funerals I am holding hands, silent cab rides home. Grief gnaws at knees. Soft pink bodies like two scoops of bubblegum ice cream. Discordant widows itch my brain, the sorrowful song of sirens. I will come, for I am a slut for funerals. I am composure. With an embrace, I have crushed hysteria to my breast. I will hunt your demons, smother them with a blanket. Clutch me when the current swells, when a river of sorrow pulls you down. I am comfort.

Patient Sex What is conversation between lovers but patient sex? Whispered words condense a thick fog upon the window. Fingernails caked with grime scratch desire lines like wrinkles. Every virginal stutter, every pregnant pause.

Your mother told you never lose your skirt. Your thin-lipped sincerity. We grin and bear teeth waiting like thieves for night to fall.

poetry

J.C. DOYLE

No Strings Attached Courtney hears a snap that fills her ears with a sound like frothing ocean teasing tide pools. Like white noise on a snowstorm TV. And for a second, she feels Achilles-dipped in molten steel, while the surrounding sidewalk is charbroiled black. She can smell the sky like morning rain, injected through her nostrils, acrid with burnt hair. She collapses on Village Gate Boulevard, between the firehall and the bus stop, because Zeus is a dick. Aaron sees her from across the street, and swears she leaned into the lightning, as if Zeus gripped her by the ears and aligned her on an axis all her own, like a heavens-strung marionette in a one-act play. He remembers how she never jumped the fifty-foot Brohm Lake cliffs. Instead stayed thirty feet back, koala-ed to a pine trunk, whiter than bleached rice.

Now, he watches her stand again and sway and swing, dancing in the zephyr. He wonders if sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll jump.

art

SHANDIS HARRISON