Memo from a Dog
Written by Lanie Smith
Illustrated by Audra Crago
Memorandum
To: All Staff
From: Dog
Subject: Stay
To Whom it May Concern:
Please see me as an emaciated hound, taken off the streets, abandoned at the shelter, lips peeling back to the shine of my bared teeth.
A reminder that I am:
Ready to bite a hand that dares to feed me
Curling up in a bed of my own filth
Barking at anyone who approaches the gate and Snarling at my idea of what you are
Please note that I am aware that you are sitting, waiting at the gates, liver treat in hand, and know that I am silently praying you stay, waiting for me on the other side of the kennel even though I bark and lunge. General heads-up that the lines of betrayal where my collar was removed are still fresh, and the air from nights spent cowering alone is still in my lungs, although my loyalty to fear is wavering.
I’ll come soon.
If there are any questions, please direct them to the crater I dug in the earth beneath the back porch where you found me, shivering and angry Cheers, Dog
INTERROGATION OF MRS. JOHN GRAVES AS TO THE DEATH OF ANGELA TIMONY OCTOBER 29, 1644
“Mrs. Graves,” Moncton said. “Three nights ago, you turned yourself in to my fellow investigator, Mr. Clarkson,
claiming yourself to be a werewolf. Do you deny this?”
“I do not.”
“You then confessed to the murder of young Angela Timony ” At this Mrs. Graves sat up straight, thudding her hands which had, until now, been folded in her lap onto the table. “I did not kill the Timony child!” She cried. “No. No. No. I did not, I could not bring myself to, I could not bear it… No,” she repeated, frantic now. “No, no, no.”
When she spoke again, her words tangled together most dreadfully. “When I was but a wee, wee I mean little girl, in Ireland, a man came by. An English actor. He came to my mam’s house for room and board, but she turned him away and shook for fear, because he had cursed us. He had one eye. I looked at it, and looked, and looked, and I couldn’t see the end, and Mam told me to stop staring.
The actor was performing in the square, he said he came from afar. I did not know to be afraid. I sat and talked with them, ‘till Mam jerked me away. And he told me that on the continent he met men with fur on their insides, which turned them raging mad.
he said, ‘our most deadly disease. Because it doesn’t poison your body, but your mind, and that is the saddest poison of all.’ He told me they were plagued by visions of destruction, so I decided that must be me.”
“T
he eye–was it made of glass? Did it orchestrate the compulsions? I’ve heard tell, in a journal of medicine, of men whose glass eyes can control ”
“Oh no, oh no, only a socket. The truth is, Sergeant, that I am twice accursed. They never know it of me because I look just like a good wife and that’s the horrid part of it
“I
wasnearlyfifteen.Ifeltsomethinginme,theweekbefore.Something bright-feelinginmychest,brightbutharsh.Itflowedthroughme,andit swirled,likethewavesofftheislandwhenthere’sastormcoming,andthe tipsarewhite.Frothingwhite,whooshingtogether,clamouring.Iwasoutside then,pickingherbsinthegarden,andIlookedoutattheworldallaroundme, anditwasthesameasitalwayswas.Thesamesky,house, ocean,allgreyandweary,liketheyalwayswereintherainiest months. Thesweatgatheredonmybrow,Sergeant, andIknewitwasnotthelandthathadchanged. Ibecamehotthen,sohotthatIimaginedtakingoff mydressand…andgoingouttothepub and…Wellyouknow.”
ut I didn’t want to go to the pub. That was the wolf.”
“You knew then, that it was the wolf?”
“I don’t know what else it could be. Even then, it was hidden, coming and going. Each month, it would be fully in control. When I was married to Mr. Graves, and I came over, it quickened. After my first birth, it did not stop.”
“You accuse your husband of worsening these urges? Oftentimes, you know, one believes that marriage brings out the worst in oneself. Perhaps you ought to have another child–”
“Oh, he did not worsen them. He did not cure them either, he is only a man. It was the place that did it.” She looked at him, her face growing redder still. “Oh don’t think I’m talking horribly about dear old Burham now, I’m not. It’s not so much different from my village, only the folks talk different, and talk to me less. But of course, I did not know that when I arrived, on the ship across the Irish Sea. I couldn’t speak to anyone, you remember?
You all thought me a simpleton, but that’s a lie. I simply couldn’t tell your dialect. My father knew; he’d been in England, but he’d never taught me, because forgive me for saying so Sergeant–he could not imagine me marrying an Englishman, even one who’s father he’d worked with years before. But with the drought, we had little other possibilities, you know.
o I just sat in the ship’s hold, from the Graveses had led me t would be like as a married wo but a year before and I did n see my father for many questions about that. And wh I saw seven crows, and I kn
“You mentioned “One for sorrow, two for mirth, funeral and four for a birth…” T slued together like those of a dr for Heaven, six for hell, sev devil, his o Mrs. Graves stopped and Moncton. “Don’t you see? T was waiting for me. It was th the crows, they were all ar Mam called me the crow-chi one flew overhead when and I heard the women in the they said one for sorrow seven when I arrived in means the Devil–it was myself was. I h they fly around the I count them eac I count them. I count past se have to count twice, and I g sometimes they come up in I am surrounded by black
24
ohn calls her Agnes, ws. They flew says, and as I held heir big black eyes–ree, three for a first that Aífe was hink so anymore? I s in the village, small, it’s true, but born, I could not get t pain, and even way, ve. I did not have ld her, nor the was at the and I watched him , and wished I could hout Aífe always in t call her Aífe yet, hen John said she tead. The wolf e as before? feed, to indulge? eating, he never
“The wolf told me to kill her.” At this the tears came back, without the sobs this time, shifting and fracturing with the silent quaking of herface.
“I looked at her,” Mrs. Graves said. “I looked at her, sleeping in her cradle,andIimaginedmyselftaking her to the washbasin and holding her under until… until she went blue and still. I imagined it, and I saw it so clear, as if it were happening right in front of me; I saw myself biting her, ripping her neck, and eating her sweet little baby head. Every day. And I grew so afraid of the washbasin that Aífe began to cry and wail because she had dirt on her. I called on Elizabeth from next door,askinghertowashherup,and Itendedtothesheep.”
For the first time, Moncton’s face revealed some degree of shock.
“You regained your womanhood. The wolf was set aside by the bond with your offspring. I’ve heard of women, whose ailments werecuredbythematernal–”
“She was too big. I knew if I tried to drown her in the washbasin now, she wouldn’t fit. And she would know to fight me. That’s why, and that’s the shamefultruth.”
“It got bad again,” she said, “after I lost little Robbie last winter, because I knew then what they would look like dead. But it was worst for Aífe, because she’s a living funeral. Perhaps Angela was a living funeraltoo.”
“Mrs. Graves, do you…” he paused, the thoughts that had long haunted hernowhoveringbetweenthem.
“Mrs. Graves, do you still wish to harmyourchild?”
“Not Aífe. The midwife saw me, once I’d left her with Elizabeth too many times, she said it happens to some mothers, and that made it better somehow, just saying that. It still happened sometimes, so I’d get Elizabeth or her older girls to wash her. It happened less for the later babies.”
“Mrs. Graves, if you were a werewolf, would you not have heard of others by now? I’ve heard tell of secret networks of such things, witches out in the north country who make plans to poison the town’s children as theysleep.”
“So it’s true, then. You know I amawerewolf.”
“I did not say that. I only said whatIheard.”
“Does it matter? What you heard,doesitmatter?”
“I want you to answer me. What occurred on the day of the Timonychild’smurder?
Sergeant, at least I hope it was not. I rode out with Molly, taking her to the river to drink, and as I stood there holding her reins, I saw the girl ambling along. Picking flowers, she was, and I thought how her hair looked as dark as a crow. She neared me, Angela did, and I saw myself reaching out my arm and pushing her into the river. It would be so easy, that’s what I kept telling myself. So easy, so quick, no one would know. She kept on coming forward, and I kept seeing it, ‘till my palms had sweat right through. I didn’t look at her but stared straight ahead. Then I broughtMollyaway,andIkeptlookingatAngela,watchingandwatching, making sure I had not done it. Walk three steps, then look back at Angela, that’s what I told myself to do. Walk three steps, see she’s alright, then flick Molly’s bridle, and all would be well. I did not kill the child! I told you!Itoldyou!Butwhatdoesmytellingmeantoyou,Sergeant?
“IfyoudidnotkilltheTimonychild,whythendidyoutellmeyoudid?”
“Because I wanted someone to know. I wanted to reveal it all, so someone elsecouldseewhatIdodeepinside.Iwantedtotellyou.”
“Ishallsendtheleechtomorrow.”
“Perform a bloodletting. Perform an exorcism. Strip me naked in the marketplace, hang me, hang me, I do not care. Whatever the punishment youwill,Ishallacceptit,becauseIknowIamabasecreature.I’vealways known.”
For the first time, Moncton’s voice softened. “Mrs. Graves, you have hurt no one. You are not a criminal. It is only an imbalance of humours, you shallsee.”
“It must be me,” she said. “It is something with me, indeed, because it cannot be the fault of anyone else. I have all that can be asked for in life. I’ve had no true hardships. I have a good life. I am happy. I am happy. I amhappy.”
And she repeated it, over and over, this strange refrain. Her face stayed still, with no attempt at a smile, or even a contortion of pain. She repeated it, and Moncton saw she was no longer telling this statement, not even to herself, but simply repeating the words. Picking them apart, trying differentcombinations,makingsureshesaidthemjustright.
written by Gwendolen Hickey written by Gwendolen Hickey
i illustrated by Ava Salas llustrated by Ava Salas systemerror.log-201906152145 systemerror.log-201906152145
Current date is Tue 1-01-1980
Enter new date: 6- -201
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Enter new time: 0:00:20.96
The Personal Computer -DOS Version 1.10, (C)Copyright Corp 1981,1982
C:\>CALL SYS.
error 0x07: memory control blocks destroyed error 0x56: function not supported on network
C:\>DIR HELP.COM HELP COM 1724 2-09-20 6:30p
1 File(s)
C:\>HELP
A: Welcome to Help.
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• To perform a hard reset on -DOS now, press ENTER.
• To learn more about Help before continuing, press F1.
• To exit Help now, press F3.
Note: If you have not backed up your recently, you might want to do so now.
. . .
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A: Are you still there?
A: If you are not sure, reconsider it now.
A: If you can’t admit it to yourself, realize that you implicitly already have now.
A: If you think you--unlike everyone else--are fundamentally irredeemable, reflect on how silly that is now.
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. . Program terminated. Press any key to return to the command t
C:\>DEL C:\SYS.
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The Drive Out of The Drive Out of Falkirk, Ontario Falkirk, Ontario
Written by G. M. Perkins | Illustrated by Anna Acosta
Johnny McKinnon was, in many ways, a simple man. He enjoyed large trucks, good beer, and action movies – as long as they weren’t the kind with magic or aliens or other weird shit He liked hockey games if the teams weren't playing like they belonged in the women's league, and his Saturday nights were made better if he had potato chips to go with the game. He disliked people who had nothing better to do than criticize him, which partially explained why he paid child support to an ex-girlfriend and an ex-wife.
Johnny had reached a point in his life that his job paid well enough and did not demand anything of him beyond the bare minimum, and he made no effort to surpass expectations. Retirement was on the horizon, and he intended to spend it just like how he spent his weekends presently: golfing in hot weather, hunting in cold weather, drinking in any weather, and as often as possible, surrounded by friends he had known for years. His gruff and impatient demeanour gave way in the presence of such people to reveal a laddish sense of humour, albeit one that relied heavily on impression and stereotype.
These comedic skills were primarily used at group gatherings, often in the homes of friends in and around the village of Falkirk At one such get-together, during the Christmas season, Johnny was granted the courage by a trio of Moosehead cans to do his impression of Justin Trudeau tearfully admitting to homosexual urges. The dozen other people present, equally if not more plastered, snorted and chuckled their approval Outright laughter was had when Johnny, who had added a lisp halfway through the routine, concluded with, “ ... And sorry for the blackface again, but don’t worry, it’s part of my Cuban heritage!”
The mood was light, and Johnny, satisfied with his contribution to the evening, began making his goodbyes. He did a farewell tour around the room, mostly consisting of, “See yous, and Merry Christmas if I don’t,” with most answering along the lines of “Yep, see ya later and drive safe, eh?”
As he finished lacing his boots the host of the party, a local Ontario Provincial Police officer, far more intoxicated than Johnny, performed his duty by saying, “Wait wait wait, c ’ mere, ” and gesturing for Johnny to approach him.
“Whatcha need Murph?” Johnny asked. “Breathe,” Murph said, pointing at his own nose
Johnny let out a big, booze-filled breath right into Murph’s face. The host scrunched up his nose in mock disgust. Seriously, he said, “Yep, just as I thought,” and then laughing drunkenly, “ you ’ re fuckin’ ugly!”
“Ah shuddap ya fackin’ boozer,” Johnny chuckled out in response, “I’ll see you later but I’ll smell you first,” he said as he muscled his way out the door into the cold winter night, shutting the door behind him.
That day had seen the first decent snowfall of the season, with thick, persistent flakes beginning to fall early in the morning and falling sporadically from the grey overcast sky throughout the day and into the night. It was several hours after a winter’s early sunset, and Johnny trudged through the snow of the unplowed driveway and climbed gracelessly into the front seat of his truck.
Shortly afterwards he was on the road, the heating system gradually pushing out the cold that had gathered in the cabin. He took a slow lefthand turn onto the north-south highway that served as the town’s main street, and fumbled with the radio as he picked up speed. The village’s church, diner, and distressed houses quickly faded behind him.
The moon was not out that night, and Johnny navigated the road only by his truck’s powerful headlights. He could see far in front of him, and he navigated the winding road with years of muscle memory, making his way home, about 20 minutes north. He had made this drive in far riskier circumstances; drunker, with more ice on the road, and with passengers distracting him. He was not concerned about the three beers coursing through his bloodstream. The only things Johnny needed to process were the wide turns of the highway and any other cars he had to share the road with, which he had yet to encounter. The only obstacles between Johnny and his driveway were ineffective trees cut far back from the road and the snowflakes which whizzed past his windshield, visible only by the light of his high-beams.
Sluggishly fidgeting with the radio dial, Johnny scanned the airways for anything good. Too soft. Too screechy. Too much of that modern pop. It was all shit. He tried the country station, but it mildly disappointed him with some rising star singing about romance. Johnny recognized the tune although he didn't know the lyrics, as simple as they were He tried to follow along for a chorus before deciding that it wasn't helping his driving He let out a hefty sigh as he searched for the off button for the radio.
A flash of white light filled Johnny's vision as his headlights reflected off a light-coloured form Before Johnny could register it, the tawny mass was skidding across the truck's hood with a thud. Time seemed to slow then, as years of muscle memory overruled the slow-moving conscious mind. Johnny slammed on the brakes, barely decelerating the massive vehicle as asphalt friction was countered by wet snow There was no stopping the thing on the hood in its trajectory towards the driver's seat. In his half-dazed state it didn't even occur to Johnny that he ought to pray.
It was only by the purest of luck that the thing moved at such an angle that it fle the majority of its ma shattered dent in the g Johnny, although he wa unharmed
The truck slid to a staggering halt, skidding across the yellow line, taking up the very centre of the snowy road. The chaos was over nearly as fast as it began, and snowflakes continued their lazy descent, unbothered.
In the cab of the truck, Johnny huffed air in and out of his now-shaky lungs. Despite his spiking heart rate he gradually took note of what had just happened. He wasn't injured, but he quickly became aware of how stuffy the heated cab had become. It took another second for him to realise that the music was still playing. The singer was eulogizing his truck Johnny found the off button
Popping the door open, Johnny stumbled out of the driver's seat. Moving slowly around to the front of the truck, the high beams illuminated a large dent in the fender.
“Fahk,” Johnny muttered out loud. “Fackin’ hell!” he muttered louder after noticing the trail of scrape marks that crossed the hood and ended in the partially shattered glass and missing side mirror. “Fahk!” he exclaimed again for good measure.
A second later his eyes followed the trail of destruction to the source. Sprawled at the edge of the ditch lay a crumbled mass of skin and bone. Its legs convulsed as if trying to learn to walk, and its mouth gargled out a vain plea for mercy. The creature's twitching was accompanied by the scraping of bone on asphalt, although the beast's skin had not broken
“Christ,” Johnny yelled with sudden volume, “shoulda watched where you ’ re goin’, ya stupid facker! Busted mah fahking truck ya dumbarse! Ya stupid thing, ya… oh, fahk you!” His rant devolved into a string of disconnected curses and swears directed at the swiftly expiring creature.
Once he had exhausted his lungs and lexicon Johnny stood there, panting. He wasn’t sure why he had yelled at the thing. It had finally stopped moving, its long legs settling in a curled up position. Its head was slightly propped up by its sizable antlers, allowing Johnny from his vantage point several strides away to see its dark, glazed over eyes and slightly lolled out tongue.
It wasn’t the first time he had hit a deer, but that was one of the larger deer he had ever seen, a pretty mature buck by the looks of it. Its antlers had a full ten points and were almost ready to shed. Its rack would have been perfect for display if the seven tonne truck hadn't broken the outward two points on the left side. No blood could be seen on the light brown pelt although internally the creature had doubtlessly bled out.
Johnny stood there for probably a minute in all, panting and staring at the carcass and thinking at a mile a minute. With its curled legs and bent back head the deer almost looked like a Christmas decoration; the sort of thing that people put on their lawns or roofs this time of year. At least the thing died quickly, so that he wouldn’t have to call the OPP to shoot it. He knew most of the local cops, but they usually had to be tougher when alcohol was involved Murph had once jokingly told him
that animals never have the common courtesy of crossing the road at ‘deer crossing’ signs. Johnny glanced around. Not a sign in sight. Typical selfish deer then. He hadn’t meant to hit it so he really didn’t need to feel bad about it. Deer got hit all the time, no matter the weather. Ontario was overpopulated by them as well; he had really just done the province a favour Still, he kept staring at the still form Snowflakes melted as they landed on the still-warm flank. It was so fresh that it looked like it could decide to get up and carry on with its evening. A small part of Johnny hoped that it did.
The thought that broke his stupor was the realization that he was standing in the very centre of the road, and that a vehicle coming up behind him wouldn’t have enough time to brake to avoid another fatal collision.
He hesitated for a few seconds more, reconsidering the body He had eaten venison plenty of times before, and had friends who knew how to butcher one properly. It wasn’t unheard of in the valley to eat roadkill if it was very fresh. If done properly it could be delicious. Deciding that it would be too much work at the present moment, Johnny wheeled around towards the truck. His bed was more inviting than tenderized deer Cracked window and missing mirror be damned, his primary goal was his driveway. Johnny climbed back into the truck, slamming the door shut. Without so much as checking his two remaining mirrors, he put the stick into drive and piloted his ride through the snow. His eyes focused on the road with new intensity as a new mood of irritation fell over him His night had been thoroughly ruined
As the noise of the engine faded into the dark horizon, the snow lay a white sheet over the motionless remains. The shuffling of bushes and crunching of snow announced a cautious mourner. Head lowered, nostrils producing plumes of steam, this second deer gently nudged its companion. The familiar, friendly warmth was fading fast. The deer scanned the road. All was silent, just as it had been a few minutes before. The bereaved creature curled up on the ground against the body. The heat only lasted a few minutes before a feeling colder than the night set into the deer's bones
Written by Akeria Sun
Illustrated by Kaiya Mongrain
“Take the long way home with me”, the girl thinks. She is small, slender, a frail-boned thing, with pale freckled skin and hair as dark as ashes. Her eyes are huge and black, large enough to act as mirrors even in foggy light, and rimmed by wispy, doelike lashes so pertinent to children between the ages of seven and ten. Her gaze is fixated on the game in front of her.
On the dirt field, the boy is getting ready t shoot some marbles with three other boys. Two of them are larger, sons of the fish merchant down th river, well-fed and stockily built from a profitable fishing season. The smaller one is their cousin, stunted by a lack of household rations and ongoing family feuds. All four of them have short, cropped black hair that can nearly be described as shaven, a are adorned with dirty clothes that are hardly more identifiable than kitchen rags. The marbles themselves are merely smooth rocks found along the river bed, covered in dirt from games prior. But to the children, the collection may as well be precious jewels. They are crouching on the perimeters of a dirt square drawn into the mud, an imaginary fence for their playground of stones. To the side, a small pile of coconut candies remains, compiled from an entire afternoon’s worth of games.
The boy holds a long, pointed stick, eyes narrowing with focus. He leans his head down, close to the corner of the dirt square, and draws the stick inwards to his body. In the square, there is a line of small, rounded marbles, poised as if they are dominos waiting to be toppled. All five children suddenly hold still, caught in a long breath. The boy pokes the stick forward, striking the biggest marble in a calculated hit. The children blink as the dirt crusted sphere ambles the ground, striking t smaller rocks.
rbles lurch
Some of them before they s. The children watch, captivated, as the marble at the end of the line inches forward, struck by the faint impact of its larger counterpart. As if moving through honey, the marble slowly tumbles towards the edge of the line, losing motion with every second. When it has barely touched the vestiges of their dirt square, the marble stops. The mousy cousin peers at the stone to ensure it has stopped marble is staunchly planted within the etched as close as it can be without escaping their ngdom. The boy has won.
d-tumble appearance, the boys have never ing. Unlike them, the girl has no siblings or fairly few built-in companions. This also has room to contribute more coconut ns she is welcome forever. From a less ould perhaps be said that they silently her friends. But amongst young boys, there is little need to point out instances of pity when it can instead simply be established through a mutual, silent understanding. There is no shame to be had, nor need for it amongst children.
The girl watches as the boy gathers up the coconut candies and triumphantly shoves the stick in his pocket. He bids his companions farewell, stating he will see them tomorrow afternoon at the same time, so lon and girl start on th the dust and grassy
The gi which she the bike wit kicking up t alongside he sway in the
When the girl’s mom brushes her hair, she takes these moments to teach her daughter about folklore.
“Aina, you know the goddess of compassion, Guanyin?” she asks. This is a tale she has told many times. She passes down her knowledge.
“Yes, ma,” the girl says, sitting up straight in her chair.
“She is the concept we should all aim to embody. After all, out of all the deities, she is the one most present in our lives.”
“I was telling Liyan about her.” Her mother chuckles. “Were you? And what did you tell him?”
“I just said what you told me. There was a princess called Miaoshan who wanted to be a nun. But her father didn’t want her to be a nun, so he sent her to a temple to do hard work.”
The mother smiles, massaging her daughter’s scalp as she talks.
“And since she was so kind, the animals helped her. And her father couldn’t stand it, so he had her executed. But she didn’t die, she floated to the top of the mountain forever.”
“You are learning well, Aina.”
The girl imagines if Liyan were here with them say. He was probably tucked in his own bed w brothers and sisters, vying for space on their He would probably say it was silly.
It is late at night, and there is no sunlight. The girl’s father is likely finishing up his late shift at the enamel factory. This is what the girl’s mother has always told her. When she finishes combing her daughter’s hair with the bone-toothed comb, she tucks it into the drawer and climbs into the same bed as the child to sleep, as she always has.
Autumn comes. The boy and the girl are starting school for the last time, but they are unaware of its finality. They are still small, not yet gangly with the growth of puberty or the confusing emotions it brings. Liyan carries his prized marbleshooting stick all the way to the classroom door, where he is forced to abandon it in a safe corner of the dirt courtyard before entering. The boy and the girl sit next to each other at spindly, chipping wooden desks. The school does not have any textbooks, but rather a large blackboard where numbers are scrawled in pieces of chalk.
The fisherman’s sons are sitting in the back of the classroom, for once having lapsed into silence. Their mouselike cousin is not with them; his family has sent him to join the military academy’s newest cohort, unable to feed another starving mouth. The streets do not have cobblestones yet.
Due to their slumber-like state, the sharks are believed to have connections to the spiritual realm a bridge to an unseen world.
They are fourteen and the city is emerging from the arms of a massacre. With their school gone, there is little else to do feel a sense of trepidation from the emptiness. The red endors are gone now, all the lotus head has been plucked he rivers, and the papaya trees have been razed to dust rk, somehow, has been left alone.
Liyan wins again.
The girl plays marbles with Liyan. Only the younger of the fisherman’s sons remains. His older counterpart has now taken over their business, replacing their father who has disappeared from his dealings in the black market. He’ll be back soon, he told them three months ago. The willow trees sway in the wind, miraculously intact as the dirt-caked marbles roll in the field.
“Good job,” Aina says earnestly, smiling up at him. Their eyes meet, and for a second, it feels as if everyone is still here, as if she is still ready to take the pink bike on a ride home while he runs alongside her, ducking away from the bustling street vendors. Their friend does not comment on how strange it is that the girl plays marbles with them now. It only seems natural. Liyan smiles back, eyes crinkling with joy.
hey go home, Liyan sees her to the apartment door. again,” Aina says, turning to go inside. When the boy stares at his retreating back for a long second, wat figure grow smaller and smaller into a coloured blur in e.
The girl typically remembers to clean up. But in this one instance, she has not, and the little rocks she has collected for marbles are laid out across the kitchen. The marbles are lined up in a neat row, ready for shooting. They are entrapped in a small square on the kitchen floor, etched on the floorboards with a piece of coal.
The girl’s father comes home early from the enamel factory for once. His footsteps drag. In retrospect, the girl knows that he just received news the factory is shutting down. When the door opens, the girl leaps to her feet, but it is too late. Before she can make out his face, the backhand and the subsequent scent of liquor strikes across her cheek, blasting against her head, then another, then more. The girl’s mother, hearing her cries, rushes in from the bedroom, her centre of refuge, and as if by instinct, crawls on all fours over the girl, sheltering her daughter with her own frame. When she looks through her mother’s arms, she notices her row of marbles has exploded apart, a singular stone pushed to the very edges of the charcoal line. The marble is victorious.
mother’s voice is hoarse, as if there is a her throat preventing her from speaking. en Miaoshan died, all her guilt was released, ys, her voice thick. There is a beat of e. “When she became immortal, she lli ed.” l says nothing. Her mother stops her daughter dabs at her face gingerly otton. The blood stiffens her lips quiet. later, when the girl becomes a young a plane to Los Angeles, and she sees a earing red lipstick for the first time, she ember this moment.
Despite their enigmatic status, greenland sharks serve as a powerful totem animal in Inuit mythology. Eyes white from their blindness, the shark drifts in the Arctic as if in a dreamless sleep. To many, they symbolise the quiet strength that comes with patience and age, the passage of time and stamina. Greenland sharks are not commercially hunted. To survive in the deep cold waters of their home, the greenland shark accumulates toxic amounts of trimethylamine oxide in their blood, rendering their meat highly poisonous to all living things. As they grow older, greenland sharks reach intense levels of toxicity, accumulating lethal amounts of fermented poison after centuries of life. Without it, the sharks would collapse in the otherwise uninhabitable Arctic sea; the perilous chemical becomes non-detachable from their flesh. Greenland sharks live a prolonged existence in inhospitable waters, their bodies both preserved and slowly poisoned by the relentless passage of time. The effects of consuming their meat can mimic the effects of extreme drunkenness, as if one consumed hallucinogens or mushrooms, even resulting in death.
Greenland
The girl and Liyan are sitting in the park one afternoon. Underneath the swaying branches of the willow tree, few passersby can see them. Their friend who has readily supplied them with leftover fisherman’s wares is gone for the time being, leaving them alone while he sorts out business in the Southern gulf. They are too old to play marbles now.
Both hope he will return; after all, he has been with them through all this time. Despite that, neither are delusional. They will likely never see him again.
“We need to leave this place,” Liyan sighs.
The girl looks at him. As a teenager, she has grown into her features. Her hair has been cropped short, shoulder-length now. Her freckles have faded on her tanned skin, now stretched thin across her face without the round chubbiness of childhood. Her large, dark eyes are still as reflective as mirrors on her face. In her eyes, Liyan can see his smooth jawline, almond-shaped eyes, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows from scrunching his face all the time.
“I’m serious, Aina,” he says, leaning forward and resting his hand on her thigh. “We know it can only get worse. They’ll start rounding up people from the streets, even from our neighbourhood. My cousin was deported to the farmlands and we haven’t heard from him since.”
“I know,” the girl says. She folds her hand on top of his, soft and slender. Liyan averts his gaze. It is a conversation they have had many times before. They feel like overgrown teenagers, not quite yet adults, trapped playing children’s games and forced to deal with adult conversations. In this instance, the girl wants the moment to last in perpetuity. She is caught in the surreal beauty of existing forever.
over her features.
“You were the best there was nowhere else “...Oh,” Liyan says, furrows.
Aina presses her suppressing a smirk. He but unreadable. “I also voice tinged with a smi They both look d up, worn-down leather nearly a decade old, p his older brother to him
“Alright,” says Liy his tanned skin, pinkeni
ay before their departure, d the girl are walking along an’s wharf, where their ld t d t
Aina smiles. She reaches out then, her hand catchi his shirt, tugging it towards her gently. Her eyes tell. and miniscule holes pee
“You want me to be like the Americans,” the girl says, laughing as she pushes his shoulder. “To say it out loud, instead of showing it like we do.” Her voice softens, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “You want me to say I love you.”
Liyan laughs too, uninhibited and open. Aina’s eyes crinkle with fondness. Such is the nature of continental Shanghai. Their laughter tinkles into the ocean horizon, reverberating like the peals of a bell.
An untold hemispheric distance away, where time slows and the cold water deepens, the shark continues to drift.
Arriving there is what you re destined for. Arriving there is what you re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all. But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years, Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich. not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you wouldn't have set out. Without her you wouldn't have set out. She has nothing left to give you now. She has nothing left to give you now.
C. P. Cavafy, C. P. Cavafy, IIthaka thaka
