This Issue: Volume 4, Number Spring 2020

darkness in light

chris bowers

She looked up at the night sky, shivering as the wind picked up and the tall, thin trees around her began to groan like giants awakened from a long slumber. A soft whisper turned into a loud hiss and the cold autumn air threw brown crisp leaves down at her in an effort to bring her attention back to the ground, but it wasn’t enough to break her upwards gaze. She crossed her arms to fend off the chill, took a deep breath and exhaled, releasing a dancing swirl of mist which quickly disappeared into the emptiness above.

Empty.

A deep gravelly voice boomed in her head and her eyes darted from each flickering light in a panic. There was nothing between her and those stars: no walls, no ceiling, no shield of any kind. Her hand stretched out as if she could pluck them from the sky but, despite her lengthy arms, she found they were just out of reach. Her breath caught and she gasped for air. Her pulse quickened and sweat rolled over her forehead.

Laughter.

Her eyes dropped to the light coming from the shallow stone pit nearby. The gentle pop and crackling of tree sap coming from the logs on the fire in front of her caught her attention. Unfamiliar faces illuminated by the soft warm glow slowly began to come in to focus as she blinked in an effort to clear her weary eyes. She was sitting in a circle with them. She remembered now - this was her first time at camp. The girls around her were clapping their hands and singing; each one of them smiling, cheeks red from the icy air.

She shrank back into herself, bringing her knees up to her chest and once again wrapping her arms around her. She shuddered. The singing continued to ring out around her, becoming more and more muffled as her eyes got lost in the flames. She watched peacefully as the amber glow swayed back and forth.

“You ok?” the girl next to her suddenly asked, nudging her with a sharp elbow.

Once again, her gaze did not break. A small grin appeared on her face and her lips slowly parted to speak.

“Have you ever wondered what keeps the fire going?” she asked in a quiet voice. “There is wood. There is heat. There is light. But what is it? We can see it but we can’t touch it. It has no substance. Where does it come from? Does it even exist at all? Is it a ghost?” her voice wavered as she squinted at the light.

The laughter and singing stopped. The faces were staring now. The only sound filling the air was the crackle of the fire which, in itself, seemed to be

getting brighter as the silence around them grew. She tried to avoid making eye contact with them but couldn’t help noticing them giggle and gawk at her. The moment seemed to last an eternity, but eventually the singing slowly started again and all sets of eyes slowly shifted away from her. Except one.

The girl sitting next to her was still staring. Her face was one of concern. After a time the girl slowly nodded her head.

“What’s your name, friend?” the girl asked. “My name’s Emma.” She looked at the Emma blankly, the reflection of the flames still dancing in her eyes.

“Ann. Ann Amalie,” she answered in the same voice as before.

Emma turned for a brief moment to the still crackling fire, trying to see what Ann was seeing. The coals were beginning to glow a deep orange and, as she continued staring into the fire pit, something caught her eye. She squinted and leaned forward, trying for a closer look. For a moment she thought she saw…no. No. The light was playing tricks. She shook her head and turned back to Ann.

anomaly

kiran malik-khan

The only anomaly in life is the absence of disillusionment – Wait for it.

missing the calm before the storm

dawn booth

To be stuck in the usual tranquillity, I wish I could have stayed there longer. I wish I could have remained in the still, calm, set place.

Because what came next, all of its instability; It was almost unbearable, almost unmanageable – almost un-everything.

Until it wasn’t.

The presage (unbelievably unpredictable); If I had only fast-forwarded through the presage that ripped my heart out and almost kept it from beating – almost.

If I had only overlooked the warning. I wish I overlooked the warning. Because it crept up on me, and it crept hard.

Hard, and long, and it was agonizing.

I could have dealt with the shock, the surprise. Instead, I got a ten-second calm, followed by ten months of chaos. A ten-month presage to what may now last my lifetime.

Always a warning with nothing to follow-up, just more follow-ups. Nothing to predict, just more potential predictions. Stuck in-between the calm and the storm;

And, only wanting the calm.

high in the north

ryan mccaan

When I finally tried it, it was love at first sight Thought to myself, where it had been all my life The puzzling thing is that all my friends were in that room Ten years later, total isolation, crippled with doom I was without a doubt the black sheep, standing out in the crowd The reality was, just wanted to make my father proud But the road that I chose, was dark and lonely to say the least Each and every day I would battle that enormous red beast I did not live each day like the others As I watched them perish, those men were my brothers They were dropping like flies, and I thought I was next That one night in the woods, got ready to send that last text To my family, and my friends, it was all just too much Felt like a man with no legs, trying to walk without a crutch In my mind I disagreed the way I was going But I couldn’t control it, I was in a boat but wasn't rowing Those paddles, they had sunk deep down below In the fires of hell, that hot lava, it would flow I managed to escape after 20 years of torture but let me tell you this, it sure was a scorcher with all those life experiences, I stand here today to help other people who have also lost their way to be free, to be happy, isn't it what it’s all about I want them to find peace, and not to carry any doubt about who they are inside, even if you think you're strange I am weird too, all the best, and don't you ever, ever change

dual understandings

veronica ephgrave-wood

I: PHENOMENON

CRITIQUE OF PURE REASON. This was scrawled across the cover of the book being read by the man sitting opposite me. I read the title, then sat, blank, eyes fixated on the meaningless words.

In one ear, there is frantic typing, the keystrokes sounding as a heavy rainfall. In the other, there are teen girls giggling in the DVD section to my right. Report… The word crept into my mind, and I leapt up in my seat.

RIGHT. My eyes rolled down to look at the blank word processing document on my screen. This was all I had so far to hand into my virology professor tomorrow. That page is worth 30% of your grade. As unsettling as the thought was, I couldn’t find an ounce of motivation to ramble about my findings regarding viral structures. I had half a mind to take the fifty pound book to my right and hit my forehead with it. Instead, I went for a little stroll.

I found myself wandering between high shelves of assorted adult fiction. I paused to peruse over the bindings, reading the titles. “How long has it been?” I heard myself murmur.

Growing up, fiction was labeled “a waste of time.” My dad forced me to read my science textbooks from school, look up science books in my reading level, or above. I used to sneak home fiction and slip it into the larger books.

He didn’t even know.

As I was about to pull a book out, I saw someone appear.

It was as if she had materialized right there against the wall, from nowhere. Giving her a quick glance, I realized she was staring at me. Caught in her gaze, I could see that her dark eyes were inhumanly deep, like two large black hole pupils boring into my soul. “He-he-hello?”

The stutter embarrassed me, but I quickly set the emotion aside for the anxiety welling up in me. Her neutral expression lightened a little. She whispered, “Hiiii.” My whole body spasmed in response, sweat building up on my forehead. She stepped toward me, her legs almost pushed behind her in an awful sort of way. She looked down, up, smiling, and placed her hand on mine.

Her ghoulish pale skin clashed with my dark pigment. I couldn’t say a word,

I don’t know what came over me, the sweat dripped down my cheek, my teeth clenched. I couldn’t breathe. Her mouth opened into a voracious grin, her eyes wider, bright. I thought she was about to laugh, but as her eyes moved in the direction of our hands, her smile faltered. Without warning, she whipped her hand away, covered her ears and screamed, so shrilly I thought my brain exploded. “Wha-”

Gone. Mid scream. Totally disappeared. “What…” A young woman stepped into the walkway, looking at the “L” authors. I cleared my throat. “Sorry.” Startled, she whipped her face towards me. “Oh… for what?” She sounded shy. “Oh, uh, the noise…”

“That’s ok, I didn’t even know-” She stopped, as if confused, then left the aisle.

No explanation.

No form of logic could provide reasoning for this occurrence.

I know that I am sane.

An interruption of the natural order, perhaps?

A blip on the screen of my interpretation of reality?

I took the book off the shelf I had planned to read, packed up, and went home.

I decided, just maybe, science isn’t for me. II: NOUMENON

It has been a long time waiting.

A long time since I last had risen from the comfortable flames, they tug at me as I push through atoms, pull apart the bonds that tie me here.

I know out there is a constant night, outside the rays of the corona I flare from. All the hours pass against a void backdrop of nullity, speckled by brethren of all colours and temperaments.

Equal to zero is this system’s irregularity, revolving, selfinvolved, unable to detect my annual observation.

My understanding does not reach a conclusion to how we connect, but its blue green presence calls to every molecule of my being. Something alive.

If I focus, I can hear it. I can hear the voices, and the diversity of communication emanating from the rock. Something alive.

One voice explains,

“In simplest words, the anomaly is the angular distance from a planet to its point in its orbit that’s closest to the sun.”

Yes, Earth. That is its name. I will not forget this time. I absorb the voices, the conflicts, the language, until it passes, and once again I sink back into the hole, where I belong.

untitled

stacey northcotte

It matters not the direction of the wind. A gust to the east with you I still bend.

We share the same soil for both of our roots. If the earth were to shake I’d tremble with you.

Yet, an anomaly is what is seen when they spot the pale birch tree. How it stands with arms tangled and wide among a glorious forest of emerald pines.

good. thanks.

kiran malik-khan

Don’t break the pattern Don’t surprise them The correct answer to “how are you?” “How’s it going?” is not your sob story Not the saga of your worries Not you waiting on a medical indictment Afraid for a loved one’s future Not any of the above Just say “good,” “thanks” And move on. Good. Thanks.

the wool over his eyes

travis hoyles

In this barn we will stay for the next few months. It is bad, but outside, outside it is cold. Out there, trees are bent to a great degree, branches practically touching the iced earth. Through a hole in the wall one can see an old trough that has shards living between the split wood. Just below the trough, a poor squirrel exists, petrified as a consequence of its hunger. Overhead, the pale device of the sun hangs low and bitter, each solemn ray cast of iron. And yet, despite the horrendous environment...I wish to be out there. In here, in this barn, I am too much. The rest are together. I am alone.

If tomorrow is anything like today (or yesterday), I will be shunned. There are forty of us - well, thirty-nine of them, one of me.

I was born within this herd. My mother and father both of normal colour. They were chosen well before I could ever sensibly question them about my wool. What a shame.

I remember the first time I heard about the Shearing. Our keepers come and remove our wool? I really couldn’t wait. They came, them in their strange skins, with funny things on their heads and rubber feet indifferent to the swallowings of puddles. One by one they lead the others in. Twenty left, fifteen left, eight left, three left. One left. Everyone else was naked, yet I was the subject of laughter. I wept.

Two weeks have passed. Where others gain refuge and snugness among their kin, especially when the night throws out its cover, I lay lonesome, breaking my breath upon the dirt. Yesterday, a lamb stopped next to me and began to lay out. His ears grazed the floor for nearly a second before he realized that I was not his older brother. His eyesight was poor. My heart, for that brief moment, was rekindled, but as I spied him taking his place next to his sibling, a fierce air came into my chest that quelled any uprising flame. I could only close my eyes. Close my eyes and dream that my wool was like theirs. White.

A month in now. Outside grows harsher still. The framework of our abode is often shook and shoved. But good news! Yesterday I made a friend. Larry is his name. Larry the mouse. He told me that he came in through a small crack at the southern corner. He is missing half of his little tail, the poor soul. From what he tells me, he fell asleep two summers ago after eating a stupendous apple that was cast off from a tree and was woken by the slashing of claws. He cried as he told me. Larry managed to make an escape, but not before the nasty tabby got his teeth around his tail. How he must have squirmed and squealed! Anyway, he survived the ordeal and now he is here, and I suppose for that I owe the cat a basket of thanks. It might be OK this winter. Larry is fun. Larry doesn’t seem to care about my colour.

What a wonderful day today was! There was no end to the laughter that Larry and I let forth. Two or three times I had thought him missing, only to discover that the little rascal had scampered to the top of my head, or had covered himself with hay and was waiting to leap out and startle me. Even Eli, an old sheep who is particularly grumpy, gave a snort once. I now wish that this Winter could stretch an eternity! How sudden things can change. No doubt, no doubt, no doubt. Larry is currently off with a set of small twin lambs, showing them jumping tricks and weird, silly faces. Maybe he can put in a good word for me.

Larry didn’t sleep with me last night. Usually he rests atop my head, a whiskered ornament rising and falling in rhythm with my breathing. He wasn’t there when I shut my eyes, and when I awoke just a few hours into my sleep, I half-expected him to be there, letting out those sweet, miniscule snores that soften my ears against the howling racket outside. But no, my crown was bare, and my ears went on, vexed to no end by the ungodly

commotions of deep winter. And as to what he is up to today? Oh, he is with them. Laughing with them. Playing with them. Accepted by them. Well now, here he comes.

It didn’t come as a surprise when Larry told me that he didn’t want to hang around with me anymore. He had a look on his face that was caught between guilt and eagerness. Guilt, because I believe that it truly did hurt him to play the part of ill messenger, but eager, because he also couldn’t wait to return to his new fellowship. I watched him go to them. It nearly slew me. I have to get out of here. I don’t care how cold it is out there.

It was just about seven o’clock in the morning when Henry put on his heaviest coat. It was a rather horrid old thing, with patches of stiffness sewn-on from years of farm labor and buttons dangling from thread running slender. But, however grim it may have looked, it made up for it with warmth, and he had need of it that morning: it was thirty-five below. It was also his turn to check on the sheep. Henry went outside.

Henry surrendered two small breaths to the frigid morning. They hung in front of his face briefly before letting go, becoming one with the absolute ivory of the surrounding landscape. The snow en-route to the barn was every bit of two-feet deep and his snowshoes had broken last week. He had left them beside the door over a duct drying when his wife opened said door with prominent gusto. There wasn’t enough clearance; the door destroyed the shoes. Henry surveyed the barn through clumped lashes and took his first step. Just as laborious as he imagined. He pressed on.

The handle of the barn door bit through his cotton glove. He tried to pull the door open, but simply could not manage. Down here, the snow was three feet. All Henry had to do was clear just enough of the snow away so that the door could swing outward. There was no shovel about so he went to his knees as curses passed his chapped lips. After a dozen painful scoops he tried the door. Still not enough. He went at it again, but stopped when he hit something hard (there was just enough feeling left in his fingers to let him know). Henry stood upright and gave a few kicks. The force behind them knocked-off enough snow to reveal what he feared...a sheep. Bending down, Henry sacrificed the remaining comfort of his hand to brush off a three-inch layer of powder. Looking up at him through frozen eyes was the only black sheep they ever owned; a beautiful strand of night trapped within the long pale of morning.

voyager

travis hoyles

December thirty-first, two thousand fourteen. Everybody celebrates the EarthFireworks, gunshots and kisses. From my clouded helm, a lonesome viewing. I move faster and at once: darkness and forgotten light.

Cold rocks collide outside my spacecraft And scatter debris that forever journey. Tears develop in front of me and remain there, suspended. I put my helmet back on and engage.

December thirty-first, three thousand fourteen. A lone vessel enters the atmosphere and burns, descending With a crash a crater is formed, Nobody left on Earth to discover it. Inside, a ravaged suit lay still Hosting the yellowed skeleton of the first voyager.

anomaly?

jennifer macmullan

Anomaly, abnormally, astonishing, astoundingly amazing. Adorning, admiring, affirming, appreciating adaptability. Affectionate, adventurous, amiable, agile aloofness. Ageless, analytical, amusing, artistic, approachable. Anomaly? Absolutely!