Tempestial mornings make wise girls old dogs

Tempestial mornings of coffee, listing the ambitions of the day ahead, makes wise girls old dogs:
Go outside (for fresh air); write to mother about holiday dinner (can’t make it); make chicken soup (flu going around).
It all banks on the immediate moment after the pen rolls quietly to rest aside the books’ binding.
If she gets up, puts on her coat, laces her boots, then drinks the final drops in the cup, the next time she picks up her pen it will be 5:00 PM, time for warm soup, and three accomplished checks beside each noted ambition.
However, if she looks outside (noting the gray clouds and the chill sailing, creeping over her flesh) and remembers that Matt said they would have to reschedule their plans, she will likely stare into the teacup, see that the black water is no longer steaming, finish the cup, and go back to bed.
There, she will remember a time when Chester (that battered lab) had succumb to the ache of his hips, and needed the electric fireplace much more than the wind in the park.
Then, she will decide (since her roommate was conveniently at work) to cry.
She’ll return to the list when the sky resembles the color of her morning coffee, and close the book before preparing and dish of white pasta (mini shells), butter, and salt; then, she’ll look out the same window while she slowly dines, deciding that, the next day, she’ll go to chapters and buy a new journal.

By Sarah C Louise

The Visitor

The woman didn’t have a steady hand, made clear from her wayward eyebrow liner. When she approached the house her eyes were so cemented to the steps that she did not notice me, with coffee and story, sitting on the porch.

“Hello” I said, forming comments about the realtor, the house, and my tenancy, for it seemed a logical conclusion that she may have been hoping to receive a tour of the interior. “You must contact the realtor” was what I decided to say, which sounded kind and firm in my thoughts; just the sort of impression I could feel proud to have had on a stranger.

“Oh, there you are”. She really only saw my toes but seemed much relaxed.

“You must contact the realtor”, I said, rather curtly.

“Oh no, that’s not why I’m here. Have you had any good news recently?”

This was the largest pamphlet for the Watchtower I had seen. They seemed to hire realistic marketers. Each illustration was accompanied with a line of text, such as: “So, who is God?”.

“I’ve received many things like this and I’m not interested”, I answered, with a smile to make up for my tone. I could never achieve the right balance.

“Well, you see, good news would be things like no disease, no war, no famine, and these are all things that the Bible promises”.

Suddenly it appeared that her eyebrow liner was very specifically drawn as it was. The quivering line, the smokey colour. She was a very unsuccessful demon. Her mouth was too affected for further hesitation, but I decided to smite her words before they were able to be remembered.

“This does not interest me but thank you for coming by”.

Her gasp was ghostly: “Oh yes, well, thank you”. The stairs seemed perilous with the defeated woman descending. When she landed, her cement eyes reached her shoulder: “it’s a lovely day to sit and have your breakfast in the sun”.

She confessed to a corruption, out of some rooted respect.

“Yes, it is”. This time I found my balance of tone. I sipped my coffee with patience.

Stony woman, her satchel weighted with pamphlets, approached the neighboring house, pausing briefly before ascending the wooden steps. There was a hollow rumble when she reached the top.

I did not dare look (though I am short in my attention and tall in my curiosity) for I sensed her eyes through the minuscule gaps within the neighbors’ Cedar tree. She glared through the branches with a yelling gaze, but I prospered. It was a pathetic battle, from where I sat, but for her meant the world of her existence. I pitied the preacher, for what does it say of one’s God when one’s world can be so easily discounted.

By: Sarah C Louise

The Legend of Beaver Island

*I wrote this story for my Mother while we were on a sailing trip on the coast of BC. We saw a run-down shack with the title “Beaver Island” on it, but when we looked on maps we couldn’t find Beaver Island anywhere! I’m sure there is one, but i was inspired and wrote this tale to account for the mystery:

It has been said that, long ago in the time of Canadian colonization, the beavers were the greatest fighters of all. The land of Canada was promptly snatched up and re-claimed by the determined English. They were ruthlessm capturing anyone who stood in their way. By the time they reached the west coast they had driven hundreds of families from their homes and had destroyed much of the land in building vast settlements for their enduring stay. But there was one group who would not stand for any more torment: the beavers.

To many, beavers are regarded as adorable builders with simple lives of raising young cubs and preserving/maintaining their little homes. Beavers were long regarded as friends of the forest. No one needed triffle with them, so they kept to their business and peacefully went their way.

However, news from upriver changed this gentle balance. It was heard that the bush beavers were being murdered by the thousands to be made into charming hats, their tales left on the trails of the nasty invaders. Now, it must be understood absolutely about Beaver tails, for it is often not clear: a beaver’s tail is their honour and life. When the beaver passes, it’s tail is swum to beaver island, the holy land of the ancient beavers. There, the proper ceremonies are performed and the beavers are permitted to the land of endless waters, where they are able to play and delight long into their afterlife. The tail of the beaver, therefor is the beaver’s key to endless joy. If they cannot have their tail broguht to beaver island they will forever be alone and lost.

So now, the reader can understand how dreadfully the news was met of dishonourable invaders who knew nothing sacred. Without delay, the beavers went to war. Any cabin containing a beaver hat was promptly disassembled and sent down the river, where their friends could gather the sturdy logs for refurbishments to their homes. Any hunter of the beaver was found squashed in the woords by collective, immediate deforestation by way of chomping on all the trees in one area at the same time. Anyone who, abhorrently, injested any portion of beaver was found burried under a mud lump, tails of proud beavers slapping the surface to ensure the suffication of the beast. The quiet terrorisation of the beavers struck fear across the land, and soon, all disbelievers were smitted as well to confirm the absolute actuality of the danger of crossing any beaver.

When boats arrived on the shore of beaver island they were met with a sight that astonished them: Beavers had banded together on the edges of the island, and as the boats came closer to the edge, the beavers dove in, eating giant holes through the boats. Any survivors who made it to the island were beheaded, since it seemed that the heads of their enemy held the same cultural significance as the beavers’ tails. The massacre of beaver island lasted years until finally, the colonizers gave up. Beaver island was released from the schedule of islands to conquer.

Infact, beaver island was so feared, that it never got published in maps, or writings of the area. The beaver was so feared that hats made from beaver pelts went out of style, and beaver meat was never again consummed. And the beavers, went back to being humble home-builders.

By: Sarah C Louise

The High Level Bridge

Jenna is walking down 109 and about to go onto the high level bridge. She walks slowly, admiring the sinking sun over the trees and modest condos. She sees the crack in the river that never quite freezes is growing with the creeping spring. She slowly walks onto the bridge and holds her hand on the railings, smiling at the locks on the cagey fence. She notices that ahead on the bridge there is a middle-aged man who is looking anxious and holding on to the railing as he looks at the ice below. Jenna feels a panic in her stomach, but tried to ignore her concern so she can continue to enjoy the view. As Jenna get closer to the man she is surprised that he hasn’t seen her yet. She considers walking on, but after she passes him she decides that she has to check.

Jenna:                 Hey, man, are you alright

Man:                   What? Oh, uh

Jenna:                 …cause if you need a phone or something, I have one you can use.

Jenna looks at the man’s cheaks, which are streaming with shiny tears as he finally looks up at the setting sun. His hands are shaking on the railing. He doesn’t look at Jenna.

Jenna:                  You know what, maybe I should walk you to the other side. Do you have someone I could call?

Man:                    There’s nothing on the other side.

Jenna:                  Just, please, come with me. I’ll buy you a coffee. I promise that’s all. If you don’t want to say anything you  don’t have to.

The Man allows his head to sink and relax. He’s breathing heavily. Jenna waits a long time, looking to either end of the bridge to see if there is anyone coming who can help intervine, but there’s no one. She looks at the traffic, considering waving someone down who can help, but is afraid to move abruptly.

Jenna:                   Is there anything you need to say? I am here, I can listen, I have nowhere to be.

Jenna looks around and begins to wonder if she should just walk away, not knowing this guy at all and noticing that he looks unstable. She’s stands alone in the middle of the high level bridge with a guy who seems to be completely broken. She pulls her phone out to dial 911, but then:

Man:                     I was never late. Not once. Bastards. You pour yourself into a job thinking that if you give more to them they’ll give something to you, right? Paula was totally fucking right. It felt important, though. But they totally bailed on me. And you can fight and fight and fight but it’s the money they’re thinking about, not the people who bring in the money. You seem like a good person. You seem like you’ve got things ahead. I didn’t realise that I had nothing until they let me go. They fucking left me go after all the overtime and the fucking bullshit! And those union guys, what they fuck do they really care, with their checklists and dues. I stood up for Larissa. They let her go after this crazy prisoner lashed out and bashed her knee out. She had to take 8 months to heal and then they let her go. Can you believe that shit? Meanwhile this woman is in solitary confinement and totally winning the game. How the hell does that make sense. I thought they would be on our side, those union guys, but they didn’t give a shit at all. But that’s what happens, I guess.

Jenna:                    I’m sorry to hear that you lost your job. Surely, though, you can give something else a try?

Man:                      Look, this is how my life has been. Maybe that doesn’t make sense to you, but a person can only give so much. And at the end of the day, when you’ve given all that you have, your time, your money, your heart, there’s nothing you can keep for yourself, you know? I was never late, I always tried so hard to show that I could be reliable, but they don’t see that stuff. I never gave myself a chance cause I was too busy trying to give other people what they needed.

                               Last fall they fired me, and I fought them on it but they didn’t want me anymore. And now that I have been seeing the world like it was new I see that no one gives a shit. I gave up on myself a long time ago and now that Paula’s gone and the institute gave up on me I know there’s nothing.

The Man looks out at the sun as it makes it’s last beacon to the day before falling out of sight. The twilight glow was beginning to take over and the wind was picking up on the bridge. Jenna was beginning to get really cold, and she pulled her jacket across her shoulders while she dialed 911.

Jenna:                     No, you’re wrong. I didn’t give up on you and walk away, and there is something out there for you still. I’m sorry you’ve gone through all this, but you shouldn’t give up. I’m getting someone to come and get you ok? They have people you can talk to, people who can help you figure this out. It’s getting cold, come on. Let’s walk to the other side of the bridge, ok? We can wait in the Starbucks over there, I’ll buy you a coffee. It’s going to be ok.

The Man looks at Jenna and the edges of his mouth curls into a smile.

Man:                      No, it’s not going to be ok. But you’ve been really nice, and you didn’t have to be. Thanks, lady.

The Man grabs onto the ledge and leaps over the bridge. Jenna screams and rushes to the railing as she sees the body of the Man burst through the ice, leaving behind a black hole. On the phone in Jenna’s hand can be heard “911 emergency response? Mamme? Mamme! Tell us your location please!”

Jenna:                    I’m on the high level. A Man, he’s gone through the ice, he jumped. I can’t, he jumped. I tried!

Jenna hears something being said in the phone, but shrinks down against the railing and looks at the traffic rushing by. Just beyond the traffic she can see more of the river, and imagines that somewhere over there the Man is glidding beneath the ice.

By: Sarah C Louise

What Was Done Will Be Done

Two people are sitting alone in an office lunch room, eating quitely. Rob is reading through a fresh copy of the Edmonton Sun. He’s eating a musterdy corned beef sandwich and a bottle of coca cola. At a neaby table, Betty, decked out in her bright pink cashmere, slightly bejeweled, sweater and plastic pink glasses (also bejeweled), is busy eating a spinach salad while her lemon tea cools. She has a little radio beside her, which is playing Easy Rock 104.9.

It’s an overcast day, through the large windows. It’s only noon but it feels later in the day because it’s so cloudy.

Rob:          Oh! Oh no….

Betty:        What is it there, Rob?

Rob:         It says here that they’re tearing down the old Royal Bank. You know, on 107th avenue? I just can’t believe it.

Betty:       Ohh! I heard about that! They have that fancy designer guy from New York! Oh, my friend Jessica told me all about that.     She and her husband were some of the first to buy one of the condos in that building. Can you believe it? They’ve already sold 50% of the properties and they haven’t even torn down the old building yet! Talk about progress. The way they’re building these days we’d be able to finish the Taj Mahal and the Pyramids in a year! It’s exciting, you know, to have a designer from New York doing a project in Edmonton. It feels so special. I’m so excited to see what it’s like!

Rob:         But it’s not right. That’s a beautiful old building. They should be working to preserve these buildings, and not turn them into dust as soon as styles change. I just can’t believe it.

Betty:       Well Rob, if you can’t make way for the future the future can’t make way for you. That’s what my Mom always said. She owned a women’s clothing store. All sorts of fine dresses from around the world. I used to love being there. The world seemed so grand between those silks. It’s important to keep up the pace. With this crazy world and all the itty bitty phones and skinny televisions, for heaven sakes, it’s overwhelming! But I gotta tell ya Rob, I love the brand new. It may not be New York, but why can’t Edmonton allow for a little class, you know? A little something to make us look up like they do in Manhattan. I just love New York. Going back there this Spring with Donald. Oh, there’s just nothing like Central Park in the Spring!

But Rob? What’s the matter? You looks as though you’re reading the obituaries. It’s only a building! Besides, we’ve got, what, 100 royal banks in Edmonton? C’mon Rob.

Rob:         No, you don’t understand. It’s really important to me, that building, my painting.

Betty:       Your painting? What are you talking about?

Rob:        That was the building with my mural.

Betty:       What mural, Rob?

Rob:         My mural of the working class. The city commissioned the work in the 70s, right after I got out of university. I thought it would always be there.

Betty:       Well, go take a couple of good pictures! That way you can always remember.

Rob:         The point was for others to remember.

Betty:       I don’t remember any mural there. What side of the building was it on?

Rob:        At the east side, with the traffic heading toward the west. I always thought that was really poetic.

Betty:      Oh that’s nice. I didn’t know you did public art!

Rob:        Well, I hoped there would be more. That was the only project. Things just didn’t seem to work out after that. And then I met Cynthia…

Betty:       Right, well, we can’t all be superstars, can we? Go get yourself some nice shots and you’ll feel much better.

Rob:        Yes, I guess your right. Thanks Betty.

Betty:      Of course, Rob.

Rob has a quiet moment looking at the paper while Betty returns to her salad. She takes three bites then sips her tea, saying a quiet “delicious” to herself.

By Sarah C Louise

Image From: http://jock-stewart.tumblr.com/

Invitation from Georgia

It had arrived in her staff mailbox last Friday. Sandy was overwhelmed by the rose scented paper, the rich black ink, the gold deckled envelope. Sandy felt honoured, and she knew just what she had to do.

She was on the number four headed to the mall. They just happened to have a sale on the fancy new kitchenaid mixer model. They had some in champagne, which would match Sandy’s paint colours perfectly. To prepare for her purchase, Sandy had decided to wear her black faux fur coat with her silver handbag.

The sun was shining brighter than Sandy has expected. The forecast had warned her of high, chilly winds. A tiny part of her wished that she’d chosen her grey, equally flattering coat. She could feel her cheeks glowing red, and was grateful for the high collar of the coat. She clutched the handle on the top of the seat in front of her to ground her as the bus twisted and turned.

She could just imagine the dinner party. Surely Georgia would have napkin rings, and decorative cake plates, and wines from five continents. She wondered who else had received their invitation. She was sure the aromas of the room would be a feast enough. Georgia’s very own home…

Her glasses were slidding slowly down the ridge of her nose as she looked out the window. It was a slushy winter day, much too mucky for her wool boots. She spotted the bank, a TD on the corner just 10 minutes from the mall. She felt a little panic; she knew she wouldn’t be paid until next week. Maybe it was a bit of a rushed decision, to go out and buy this kitchenaid when she couldn’t afford to fly to Calgary to see her Mother. But it was part of the experience. Besides, how long had it been since Sandy had treated herself?

Sandy had invented the perfect plan. Her mother had made much loved sweet-potato cupcakes in her day. Sandy was reminded of their deliciousness at every family function, where the famed cupcakes made for regular lamenting. Sandy knew that it was the last thing Georgia would be expecting. Who knew! They might even draw more attention then the inevitable treasures Georgia would prepare.

Sandy was considering the options for candying pecan garnishes when a green bottle slid out from under a seat and knocked the back of Sandy’s feet. Sandy picked up the bottle and she turned around to deliver the bottle to it’s owner. There was a young girl with peculiar hair and a dense coat. She was writing furiously in her notebook. She hadn’t noticed Sandy turn around.

“Here you are” Sandy confirmed. She held the bottle above the notebook.

“Oh, that’s not mine” The young woman held her pen at the ready.

“Well, who’s is it?”

“I don’t know, it’s a mystery!” The girl smiled in a goofy sort of way and returned to her words. Sandy had an impulse to throw the bottle before the girls concentrated face.

Sandy returned, blundered. She held her hand containing the bottle below the level of the seats and tossed the bottle. The bottle bounced vigerously, echoing abruptly with every motion. It fell aggressively against the boot of a tired old woman. As though welcoming Sandy to pergatory, the woman creeked, grinding her bones until she caught Sandy’s glance from the edges of her withered eyes.

“Sorry, Madam” Never had a person of elderly age instilled such threat. The woman kept her contact with Sandy far beyond the realm of time which would suggest that Sandy was forgiven.

Internally Sandy was screaming: “What! I am just taking care of someone else’s mess! This is what I get? You’ve no right to judge me, you crow! Well, that’s very nice. How kind, to tear me apart for a harmless bump! A bottle is hardly a reason to get upset! Get your filthy eyes off of me!”

The old woman successfully reached the depths of Sandy’s soul. Unimpressed with her efforts, she returned, bones grinding heavily as they found a semblence of alignment.

The bottle seemed to be laughing at Sandy: roll roll roll ha ha ha BONK tumble clink HAHAHA BONK BONK PSHHHHPSHSHHHHHAAAAAAHAHAH HA BONK BONK! Sandy stewed. As the bottle attempted a second attack at Sandy’s shoes she made a grab for it, blindly waving her arm under the chair until she clutched the sorry aggressor. Sandy shoved the bottle beside her bag, on the seat next to her. She would take care of it when she arrived at the mall.

Sandy felt a slight burning at the back of her head. She turned abruptly to catch the young girl staring. Ashamed, she pretended to have a burst of inspiration. “Just as I thought”, thought Sandy.

The bottle was disposed beside entrance 52. Sandy charged into the doors. She reminded herself that she loved the fancy mannequins, telling herself that the kids skating on the rink were cute, and applauding herself for getting through that annoying bus ride. She was past it now.  She forced herself to raise her chin and pull her shoulders back: the visage of confidence. She smiled at the families running the errands, kids being pulled beyond a pace they could manage. She thought of the champagne mixer that awaited her. She thought of Georgia.

Everything was ready at home. The flour, the cinnamon, the ginger. Ginger was her mother’s secret. She had crimson cupcake liners, the richest colour she could find. She had even picked up vanilla from Madagascar. She wondered what Georgia would say.

The store was fairly crowded, but to Sandy’s luck an employee stood near the entrance, free to abide Sandy’s bidding. Sandy explained about the sale, abour the colour, about the special recipe. The employee understood perfectly, and promptly made her path to fetch the mixer from storage.

Sandy took a great breath. Such fine products lined the shelf. Sandy noticed 10 different colours of salt, all varying degrees of coarseness. Perhaps Georgia would like a little gift, something for being so kind to host. Sandy chose a small container of rose salt. It did seem ridiculous to spend twenty dollars on salt, but what the heck. It was a cause for celebration, really.

Sandy was standing near the til when she noticed the employee emerging from the storage doors. Sandy fluttered, why on earth were her hands empty?

“I’m sorry miss, but it seems the champagne is a real favourite! We sold our last one in the champagne just this morning. We do have five other colours which are equally tempting”.

“No, you don’t understand, I was looking specifically for the champagne”. There was an error. Of course, it wasn’t sold out. How could it be?

“I am awfully sorry. It is so unfortunate that you came all this way only to find out that the one you wanted is the only one we don’t have. I can order one for you, though! We should be able to get one in our next shipment, if you’d like. It usually doesn’t take more than three weeks!”

This employee’s voice was a cheese grater on dry wrists. Sandy couldn’t stay there a moment longer.

Once Sandy made it out of entrance 52 she saw that her bus was there. Sandy knew she had to make a run for it. She hustled through the parkade, diving around puddles and distracted individuals. Sandy was surprised that the bus hadn’t left by the time she could see 87 avenue. She stood a chance. She reached into her handbag to prepare her wallet, being sure to clear the cement parking markers. She got to the tree before the bus terminal when the bus began to roll toward the exit.

Sandy watched it drive away, almost slow enough that she thought she could hop on if it had some sort of balcony as the trains do in movies. But that would never happen.

Sandy pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number of Georgia.

“Oh, Sandy! Why hello! How are you today?”

“Actually Georgia, not so well.”

“Oh no? I’m sorry to hear that. What’s been troubling you?”

Georgia took a moment to shoo away the water trembling behind her eyes. “Well, you see, I’ve been having a bit of a cold”

“Ah, yes, that does put a damper on things, doesn’t it? Well, I’m sorry, Sandy. You’re still coming to the dinner though, aren’t you? I could make you some ginger tea?”

“That’s very nice of you to offer Georgia, but no I don’t think I can after all.”

“Oh no, I’m disappointed.”

“Well, we cannot help these things, can we?”

“Yes, I guess not. Well, if you change your mind you are more than welcome. Get some rest, Sandy”

“Yes, Georgia, I will do just that”.

“Alright then, goodbye”.

“Yes, goodbye now”.

Sandy looked at the grey of the day. A man in crutches gussles the last drops of a listerine bottle and throws it in the trash. Three teenagers in grubby sweaters smoke cigarettes by a pile of ashy snow. Sandy wondered what to do with herself as she waited for the next bus.

By Sarah C Louise

Untitled

It is the end of the day in a grade four classroom. A few students are working quietly at desks after the bell has gone. They each await the arrival of their parents to pick them up. Only 10 remain in the desks, each industriously and silently invested in their work. Mrs. Johnson stands at a counter along one of the walls. The class hedgehog, Henry, is marching slowly around the perimeters of his cage. Mrs. Johnson is filling out a form which she will put on the wall above Henry’s cage.

Jessica got up quietly from her desk and walked over to Mrs. Johnson. Standing beside Mrs. Johnson, Jessica smiles softly as she inquires.

Jessica:        Hello Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson continues to write and look at her paper while she speaks to Jessica.

Johnson:      Hello Jessica. How are things going with your work?

Jessica:        They’re good. I’m all done. What are you working on?

Johnson:      Oh just a boring form. I’m almost done though! What a relief that will be.

Jessica:         Why do you have  to do it?

Johnson:       It’s one of those things. In order for schools to operate there is a lot of silly documentation that needs to be in       order for things to remain in order.

Jessica:         Oh. Why don’t you just not do it?

Mrs. Johnson turns to look at jessica. Mrs. Johnson laughs a little. She jokes in an old English accent.

Johnson:       I simply must!

Jessica giggles lightly and instinctually tucks her hair behind her ear, accidentally revealing an open wound on her ear.

Johnson:        Oh, Jessica! What happened to your ear? It looks so painful!

Johnson catches herself from speaking loudly. Jessica turns her head to look at the wall, crunching her shoulders up and crossing her arms, still smiling softly.

Jessica:          It’s a burn.

Johnson:        What? How did you get it?

Jessica:          Soup. What does that say?

Johnson:        It says some details about what we’re studying in science. Jessica, where did this happen?

Jessica:          At home.

Jessica reads some details on a poster above the counter. She reads slowly, still struggling with

Jessica:          “Ivory Soap Experiment. Scientific Question: will we still be able to use the soap to wash our hands after it explodes in the microwave? Cindy says “I think it’s going to be something else!”  Andrew says “I think it will destroy everything!” Jessica laughs That’s funny.

Mrs. Johnson takes the time while Jessica is reading the poster to examine the areas around her ear. Mrs. Johnson notices scratches and bruises on the neck. She speaks very quietly to Jessica.

Johnson:        Jessica, are there any other spots where you’ve been hurt?

Jessica:          On my back.

Johnson:        My dear, has something like this happened before?

Jessica:          No. Worse.

A student on the other side of the room calls Mrs. Johnson’s name and puts their hand up.

Johnson:        Just a minute, Evan. Be patient and I’ll come over in a minute. Jessica, do you want to tell me what happened?

Jessica:          I don’t want to talk about it. What is Henry doing?

Mrs. Johnson looks down at the hedgehog who is rubbing his nose into a little toy sculpture in the corner of the cage.

Johnson:        It looks like he’s, being pretty silly. What do you think?

Jessica:          Henry’s always like that. When I took him home one weekend he just bumped that thing all day long. What’s the point?

Johnson:         Maybe he thinks he’s going to find something, if he keeps trying?

Jessica:           It’s stupid.

Mrs. Johnson looks at Jessica’s smiling face, unsure of what to say.

Jessica’s father, Mr. Clark pops his head in the door.

Mr. Clark:        Jessica, it’s time to go. Come on. Quickly.

Jessica goes to her desk to gather her books.

Mr. Clark:        Hi. How are you?

Johnson:          I’m fine. Just finishing the day. And you?

Mr. Clark:         Fine, fine. Come, Jessica, come.

Jessica walks toward the door.

Johnson:          Bye, Jessica! Have a good night, my dear. I’ll see you in the morning!

Jessica:             Bye, Mrs. Johnson.

Mr. Clack:        Let’s go. Bye. Thank you.

Mrs. Johnson turns from the door and stands, her two fists clenched on top of the counter. She looks up at the soap experiment poster, reading “I think it will destroy everything!”. Evan calls Mrs. Johnson’s name again, with his hand still in the air.

Johnson:          Evan, I’ll be there in a minute, ok? I just have to finish this.

The boy puts his hand down in compliance. Mrs. Johnson picks up her pen and tries to write. Her hand shakes as she breathes deeply.

By Sarah C Louise

 

Untitled

Setting is in a busy day care center. Kids are running all over. There are blocks stacked in a tower in one corner. There is a table covered in garbage bags with paint smeared all over it. There are kids running a hair salon and pretending to cut each others’ hair. Jessie stands in the center of the room with a binder. A young boy named Omar comes up to her feet holding a little spring of an Angry Birds shooter. There is one of the little yellow birds ready to be launched in it.

As Omar speaks he twists his ankles and walks in little circles and bends and throws his arms in the air and turns in every direction to say the different points, while Jessie stands in the center of the room. Jessie is doing two full checks of every child in the room, and trying to fill out two forms which need to be completed before the hour is out. Jessie doesn’t look at Omar as he speaks but keeps doing her checks or writing on the paper.

Omar:   Hey! I want to tell you something!

Jessie:  Ya Omar?

Omar:   Guess what! When I was shooting the angry bird I had him like this in the shooter and when Ahmed was sitting on the ground the angry bird whet like this and then flew like this and went over his head like that and Ahmed was sitting on the ground and it didn’t touch him!

Omar pauses for dramatic effect. Jessie keeps checking. There’s an effort to sound excited in her voice.

Jessie:  Oh woah, that’s pretty cool buddy.

Omar:   Ya and you know what! When Ahmed was sick earlier and he said his stomach hurt…

Jessie:  Ahmed, did you finish your water?

Ahmed looks up from the ground where he is still sitting.

Ahmed:  Yes.

Jessie:   You feeling better now?

Ahmed: Yes.

Omar:    Ya! Cause you know why?

Jessie:  Oh why is that Omar? Glad you’re feeling better Ahmed.

Omar:  Cause, you know what, I just stayed with him until he was happy!

Jessie:  Oh ya? How did you make him happy?

Omar:  Well I told him a funny story until he was laughing, and then he said that he forgot he was sick.

Jessie:  You did? Oh that’s good Omar.

Omar:  Ya, cause, I think that most times when people are sick it’s just in their mind, and they think they’re sick, but really they just want a friend! So I went to Ahmed, and I said “Ok Ahmed, you’re my friend, so I’m going to make you laugh, ok?”, and then Ahmed said “Ok” and I told him a story about how I was making food with my mom and I spilled it all over the floor! And you know what? Then Ahmed started to laugh!

Ahmed has overheard Omar talk about the spill again and begins to giggle.

Omar:  See! That’s how you make people better! You tell them a funny story until they laugh so they don’t feel alone!

Jessie:  Oh wow, that’s cool Omar. Keep making him laugh, ok? I have to go make a check, my friend.

Omar:  Ok!

Jessie keeps wandering around the room doing checks and Omar sits down beside Ahmed and tells him another part to the story, involving even bigger gestures and Ahmed and Omar roll all over the ground laughing.

By Sarah C Louise

 

The History of Garbage Land

There is a land, galaxies away from this planet of ours, which has recently been subject to studies. This planet, which was once called Earth, has been currently called Garbage Land, which seemed a more fitting name once landing teams explored the surface. There were libraries discovered, the stones of the walls scattered amongst books of all sorts containing extensive accounts of the planet’s evolution and eventual demise. Historians have begun gathering details from these documents retrieved from Garbage Land to produce a comprehensive document on the history of Garbage Land. Scientists have taken samples through many tests in contained labs, so the radiation poisoning won’t spread. They appeared to have a very similar dominating species to our populace. The emphasis of study has been pressing on the science world in recent months as an example of what could be the result of our own land without careful monitoring and precautions. It is hoped that the knowledge of the destruction of Garbage Land will assist our planet in enduring perpetually. This is the first release of information, from what little has been gathered thus far:

Before the days of synthetic products, before the creation of chemicals, and long before there were masses to be producing for, the land was green and lush and rich. The system of life cycles throughout the world had offered a place for everything. There was an organism, animal or bacteria assigned to specific tasks in order to maintain the careful balance of the system of the land. Dead waste was broken down, dissolved and transformed into new living formations. There was more harmony there than this earth has ever known

But then came the dooming dawn of productive people. People, who are endearing in their ambition to make a better situation for themselves. People, who are daunted with dreams and hurried by their mortality. People, who’ll never know a stagnate existence because there’s just no time to lose!

And so, the great decline began. The early indications were the apple cores and orange peels and other such degradable foods. It was widely known that these materials could feed the world, so they were proudly cast off to gardens and green lawns.

Then people needed something to carry their apples and oranges in, so someone invented plastic bags. Stuck high up in the trees these bags became an eye-sore, and much discussion of the webby safeway clumps erupted amongst citizens of the world. Cities hired workers to climb up and retrieve the bags,  but soon it was decided that the real eye-sores were the trees, which were quickly replaced with infrastructure.

Meanwhile, people were beginning to get tired during shift work at the factories for making plastic bags. It was abundantly clear at this point in history that coffee had to be carry-able at all times to compensate. Paper coffee cups began turning up by the 1000s, which was tolerated at first (even, comically, cups could be seen hanging off the ends of branches of trees, on the tips of fence posts or stacked in clever pyramids). However, people once again began to worry.  So, the coffee companies decided to make compostable cups, which set everyone at ease. These new and improved cups filled the gardens and parks, soon to be composted by, the ever faithful, nature.

Simultaneously people were working longer and longer hours at their respective factories. There was a movement of self-medication involving the onset of fast food consumption due to a rapid increase in rye and red bull digestion. The drunk buffoons quickly lost sight of their conceptualization of consequence, and couldn’t seem to tolerate the endless food options tempting them. Driven mad with satisfaction, the city streets filled with pizza boxes, mama burger wraps and oreo pie containers. Once again the community complained, so the city produced even more garbage cans to offer a place for the garbage and vomit that began to coat the cluttered sidewalks and miserable gutters. People appreciated the effort, and even tolerated the 3 or 4 big mac boxes which couldn’t quite make it into the bins. Once the new norm of speckled trash among the cracks in the pavement settled in, people relaxed about the drunks.

Shift work continued to grow in length, and so came movement of the hazardous broken bottles. In bushes, in streets, in a strong breeze, broken glass had demanded routine caution from the people. New shoes were designed with extra-huge soles, and entrepreneurs established businesses of designing super-inpenetrable homes, coats, and tires. Tornados of shiny glass became common forms of entertainment in parts of the land.

Garbage day could only be noted, not by the successful sweeping of trash, but by the noise of the trucks, who would meticulously dump every garbage can, though, by the end of the day, the damage will have been repeated. Garbage day evolved into a daily affair, but people began to complain about the taxes poured into operating the huge trucks and resigned their contributions.

Artists began to romanticize this provoking new state of the world. Their films and songs (the only remaining art forms, since live performances of all kinds had become extinct due to completely absent audiences) were played from televisions and stereos in the homes of the people, who too began to immortalize the subtle beauties of their surroundings through pictures from car windows and living room windows.

In Autumn, citizens began to realize that leaves from resting trees were barely notable in comparison to the piles of chocolate bar wrappers and receipts. The streets had been covered beyond redemption. People had adjusted. Dog waste was often left on indiscrete surfaces of the roads, and could hardly be noticed by smell. In fact, people began taking their outings in mini tanks, designed to race over any surface, no matter how rough, with ease. Pure-air was pumped into the tiny atmosphere of the tanks so people could breathe cleanly as they toured. City buses were converted into tank form, and tank treds were implanted into planes so they could actually take off.

Though people had grown up with waste removal through eco-centers and the city dump, the amount of waste in proportion to the amount of giving-a-shit was outweighed greatly. It was a daily sight to witness a tired microwave, some stained bed sheets, containers of leftovers, even family pets who’d passed away in the basement, being thrown casually out of kitchen windows. Anything with a hint of unpleasantness was tossed.

The cadavers of the wild animals left in the world were found with astonishing numbers of bottle caps and lighters packed into their stomachs. Since and consumable nourishment was visibly scarce, these unfortunate beasts tried to adapt themselves, attracted to the bright colours of the empty lighters and organic look to dissolved cardboard. Nests were quite easy to spot, with fragments of tarps, shreds of plastic bags, and leather laces entwined. Raccoons were injesting flavourful gum delivered from racing hondas along demonic highways. Chip bags were a sad home to frightened mice in their nightly scurry from hungry hawks.

The ocean incorporated clothing to its currents, papers with important numbers and excessive numbers, and children’s toys which, upon rejection, were rejected from the world. Such vortexes of rubbish swirled like a cosmos, the ever growing evidence of catastrophe.

Amazingly, citizens of the world carried on their furious costco shopping trips, who couldn’t leave without the darling reading lamp which not many people would have purchased yet, or the gigantic-size vat of peanut butter which would last the rest of the year, of the striking fusion appetizer plate for the party that surely would require impressing.

Yes, all was clearly lost, unless you were on St.Catherine’s on a Friday, where chuckling drunk dudes hysterically celebrated the destruction of the third telephone booth while beggars dropped to their knees for french fries. The shameless, sleepless partiers appeared to rule the world, since they were the only ones proudly occupying the open spaces between consumptive cigarettes and violent vomiting.

The world was truely in it’s final days, unless you looked into the bedrooms of deep suburbia to find facebookers and bloggers and twitterers working from home, avoiding any integration or interaction or demonstration or proclamation or sensation which could not be expressed without a “like” or a “share”.

All awareness of snow had been lost. World maps had initially kept up the shrinking shape of Antarctica, but Geographers got distracted by the fascinating new land masses which began developing: new islands had popped up along the coasts in the Pacific and Atlantic ocean, which tourists toured with excitable guides.

There were jolting bursts of revolution, like the discovery of mutated fish, or the nuclear warhead toss North Korea tried to play with America, or the genocide of Aboriginal groups around the world, or the consistent dismaying results scientists gathered from studies and experiments which caused them each to write “SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!” repeatedly. However, corporate chairs of boards gobbled up the political power and instilled new policies and enticed the public of “can’t pass on a good deal!” and “So cute!! Why not!??!?!?!” and “Who knows when this will come in handy!”, all bulgy eyes and twitchy tails.

There were moments when there was still time, but there were too many variations of points to be gathered: aeroplan points, safeway club points, lottery numbers, credit card rewards. The degree of isolation became nation-wide and all notion of natural balance was replaced with every notion of personal gain.

Tragically, there was no end to the wastefulness. In the last recorded history of Garbage Land, documented in the margins of an old copy of the Sun which read “OMG WHERE ARE THE HEROES?!!??!?!”, there was a marvelling stack 10 miles above sea level pile of stinking, sickening, stenchy trash covering the surface of the earth. Mountains were buried in stacks of broken stoves and old family vans and Tim Hortons donut boxes.  The end to humanity was abrupt, due to the lack of preparation for global starvation. The water had been so polluted that each corpse was a cancerous, tumourous mass, unceremoniously left to time in stale apartments, which had not seen a visitor in generations. Those that saw the final days of the world hadn’t noticed their historical significance due to a complete disregard to the surrounding world. Should anyone have been left to see these final resting places of the last traces of humankind, they would have discovered carved phrases in refrigerator doors saying “What is the use” or “Why am I here”, demonstrating a complete lacking of true progress (since these age-old questions remained unanswered).

Alas, the world was consumed by garbage. But Garbage Land is located on a far away planet, so it barely resembles this earth of ours, though the names and habits may sound familiar. Don’t panic. There’s no need to panic!

By Sarah C Louise

 

The CooCoo Women

“Oh Darnit”, Marianne said as she tipped her coffee tin. A pile of scraggly bits bundled. Marianne even considered if it would be enough.

“Darnit, Bob”. Marianne put the tin down on the marble counter, hands clenched on the edges of the cold stone, and looked up at the snow falling outside her kitchen window.

“The nice thing” she thought “is on the 15th floor you know exactly what sort of day you’re dealing with”.

Marianne shuffled to the door, her knitted booties comforting every step of the way. Marianne sat on the chaise and she slipped off her booties. She then placed her feet carefully in her tan ugg boots. They seemed to be particularly cushy. “Best buy of the year” she thought.

She gazed briefly at herself in the mirror. Salt and pepper curls scattered; dense glasses perched brightly; her pink, quilted robe with the collar needed some adjusting to sit straight on her brittly shoulders. She thought of Rickie, the young cashier, who would surely be working. She decided these were extreme circumstances: never again would she go out in her pajamas.

The streets were quiet. The 10AM sun was dulled in the hazy, snowy sky. Marianne wasn’t cold, just as she’d predicted from her kitchen window.

As she passed the parked cars in the lot before the grocery store she realized she’d been straining her neck. She held her head low to keep the snow from landing on the sensitive parts of her face. A truck rumbled and jerked before her. She halted, scowling amazedly at the driver. His face turned to meet with Marianne’s. He waved, indicating that she could proceed. She could see a smile on his face. Marianne kept a firm glare on the man. “No truck driver should be trusted with my life” she thought.

Luckily for Marianne, the Safeway was quite bare, and she sailed past the aisles. She knew this safeway down to the varieties of orange marmalade.

With her hands on a new tin of Nabob, Marianne was glad she’d come. She could smell the coffee even with the lid sealed shut.

Marianne felt a flutter when she saw Rickie standing there waiting for her. His smile was full of surprises. She could never decide which part of her he was choosing to criticize.

“Morning, Mrs. Wilson”. Rickie rang in the coffee. “You came on the right day, it seems”.

Marianne adjusted her robe, appauled. “Exucse me?”

“Three dollars off today, mam, with the club card”. His smile had worn off slightly.

Marianne held her head. “Yes, lucky me.”

The snow was even calmer now. With her right arm Marianne clutched the Nabob coffee; with her left arm Marianne shielded her face from the snow, so she could see what was happening infront of her.

The street light had just changed before Marianne could cross. “It would be so nice if they’d speed up this light a bit”, Marianne thought.

She saw behind her raised left arm the visage of a young woman in a parka with the most peculiar hair. A sort of bob with a long lock of hair on one side falling below her chin. Marianne was studying the other peculiarities of the woman (her bright yellow pants, her purple shoes, even the way she walked), and hadn’t noticed that the woman was smiling right at her, smiling with a sense of wonder. Marianne was hooked into the eyes of this woman, and felt a sort of relief. It was as though they were both a part of the same club: The CooCoo Women. “Prepare to be amazed” Marianne joked in her thoughts, realizing she was chuckling softly. Marianne noticed that the woman seemed to be chuckling too. As she passed Marianne let her arms relax at her sides.

“Have a good day” the woman said warmly.

Marianne ducked her head shyly, “you aswell, dear”.

Marianne crossed the street, swaying her arms by her sides as she strolled.

Bob stood in the kitchen, the Nabob tin tilted to gather the remaining scraggly bits. “Why, Marianne!”, he adjusted his glasses, “You went outside in your pajamas?”

“Of course, Bob”, Marianne chuckled softly. “I’m one of The CooCoo Women”.