Blue Eyes Down Rideau Street

The bus was empty, besides the sleepy commuters with early starts. It was the first cold morning of September after a warm summer. The darkness turned breezy, which called for coats and scarves, but turned into a golden sun that carried your layers home in the afternoon. This was the weather on the day I fell for you.

I captured your movement in the grey pants I always picked out for you. I was captivated by your eyes as we sat by the river. Despite their freezing blue colour, they made me warm that autumn evening and continued to warm me for a year and a half.

Courtesy of Victoria Borodinova via pixabay.com

Two years later, on that bus, I was no longer warmed by you. I didn’t even notice the change in temperature when the doors opened, and you stepped on.

When the bus pulled into Hurdman Station, I finally noticed the blue jacket you always wore on days like this one. I used to meet you at the bus stop late, with you in your collared shirts and fancy shoes. That puffy, blue jacket never matched anything, but I overlooked it.

I scanned my eyes down to those shiny, brown shoes, then back to your head that was thrown over your shoulder and facing my direction. You quickly snapped back before you hopped off the bus and headed to the train platform.

The last time we were here together was four months after the first time I ended things. I thought God put you there when I asked for forgiveness, but it was the devil teaching a lesson. The love witch was out when you kissed me Halloween night, and I fell into your wrath one more time.

We didn’t look at each other as we got on the train. We both knew damn well we were getting off at Rideau. We still had the same jobs. We used to meet after work in the Byward Market for milkshakes in -20o weather.

The trip was quick. It was almost as fast as you sprinted away, but longer than it took for me to fall in love. This time I was slow, taking my time because there was no longer a rush for love, unlike the one you seemed to be in.

You kept looking back, but it was too late. You should have looked back before you decided to kiss that other girl in March.

I cried myself to sleep right beside you the night I learned about her. You said no when I demanded an apology. You told me I was crazy. That night was the first time your warm eyes turned me into the ice that resembled your heart.

You pushed the doors open and walked into Rideau Street’s darkness, where I left my feelings for you. I gave you cold eyes to leave the same lasting impression that you etched in my heart. 

---

Sarah Travis

Sarah is a second-year Professional Writing student at Algonquin College. When she’s not in zoom classes, she’s either making coffee for the green siren, or at a thrift store.

Complications

Courtesy of mspark0 via pixabay.com

“I don’t feel any better.”

“Because you haven’t had all of your treatments.”

“I feel sick.”

“You always feel sick, dear.”

“Not like this,” Markus says. Bianca knows it’s true. He’s pale and sweaty, a bit green around the gills. Gently, she pats the top of Markus’s wrinkled hand.

“I’ll call the nurse.”

“I’m tired of nurses. I’m tired of doctors poking at me and demanding tests.”

“You’re in the middle of an experimental procedure,” Bianca reminds, “if anything, they’ll want to poke at you more.” She leans over her husband, mindful of her aching back. Hospital chairs should all be replaced with recliners, in Bianca’s opinion. She’s far too old to sit in uncomfortable plastic seats for hours on end.

She presses the call button and settles back into the chair with a sigh. "You alright?" Markus asks, despite his own discomfort.

“Of course, love.” She is only fatigued and ready to be home. Their eldest son, Jacob, will arrive half an hour before visiting hours end to take Bianca home for the night. Then, he will pick her up at exactly 8:30 in the morning and bring her back to the hospital, just as he has done for the last month.

“Where is that nurse?” Markus grouses after a few minutes pass. Sweat pours off him and soaks the bedsheets. He is far paler, too. Bianca hits the button again forcefully. Markus has received two injections of Scyphozall Cure already, and he has not reacted this way before.

Bianca can’t help but feel a bit guilty. She encouraged Markus to try the so-called revolutionary procedure when it came out, since it would allow him to be treated while accommodating his fear of surgery.

Markus looks worse. His veins can be seen through his pallid skin, and all of the sweat makes it look like he’s melting. Bianca stands from her seat, giving the call button another press on her way to the door. She peeks into the hallway. It is empty. All of the Scyphozall Cure patients are in their own special wing and the doors to the other rooms are always shut.

“Nurse! Doctor! Hello! My husband is having a reaction!” Bianca’s voice echoes down the hall. Nobody comes. Markus groans. Bianca turns to reassure him before she ventures out to find somebody on staff, and screams.

Markus is a trembling, translucent lump. His arms are limp and his fingers have started to congeal together. His head is melting into his neck, which is melting into his torso. Where the top of his hospital gown has slipped from his receding shoulders, Bianca can see his heart beating through his skin.

“Bian… ca…”

“Nurse!” Bianca hollers, frozen with fright in the doorframe. “Nurse! Nurse!”

Two nurses rush in, crowding the bed with equipment and hurrying to restrain Markus. As they block Bianca’s view of her husband, all she can think of are the sweet little jellyfish pictured on the cover of the Scyphozall Cure pamphlet.

---

Simona Casale

Simona Casale is an aspiring editor and fiction author. She hopes to one day have a career as both, as well as to run her own small business.

Deceiver Demise

Courtesy of PublicDomainPictures via pixabay.com

The serpent slithers into the ear

festering venom defiles conviction

native lies deform the truth

the heart forms septic wounds.

A possessor who answers prayers

deriving sadistic pleasure from inflicting pain

itching to drag me down to conscious, eternal torment

it hates everything I am.

Polluting

devouring

accusing

condemning.

But you won’t get away with it.

Serpent, you will feel the wrath

you will be cast into the abyss

you will be decapitated

for vengeance is His name.

---

Styles Henriquez Desbarats

Styles Henriquez Desbarats is a self-published author who writes a bunch of weird stuff. You’ll often find him in Hangar 11 listening to unblack metal or reading comic books. His superpowers are enhanced strength, super speed, and mad Halo skills.

In The Eye of the Beholder

Courtesy of 165106 via pixabay.com

The view before me threatens to take my breath away. 

Everything around me is still and quiet. My eyes trace the delicate curves of the bubbling brook before me. Some of the larger rocks break through the water, their smooth surfaces damp and glossy. From the way the sunlight reflects on them, you’d swear they could be crystals. 

Further back from the water’s bank is an impressive wall of trees. A maple tree with vibrant red leaves commands attention, the sheer height of it coming close enough to scrape the bottom of the wispy mare’s tails that hang overhead. Its golden-brown bark is rich with rough texture, adding layers I can almost feel from this vision before me.

A large root juts out in front of a small bush, which still houses a few small remaining berries that the encroaching autumn and local animals have yet to take care of. The brown of the root and hints of the deep purple berries contrast with the mass of green that pleases the eye. It adds a little bit of visual interest where there would not have been before. 

The sun peeks out from just above the treeline, yellow light blending with the colours of nature. It’s creating an atmosphere of warmth on the world below it. 

 This view evokes some of my fondest childhood memories, of times when my sister and I would play in a forest just like this one until our mother called us back to our cottage for dinner. The wafting smell of her fresh blackberry pie already cooling on the windowsill beckons us indoors. 

I haven’t seen that place in years. We’ve all been so busy. My own life has been so hectic I can barely manage one day off, let alone the three or four required to truly enjoy the cottage.  

How I would dearly love to see it again.

But now is not the time to indulge in memories. I have a job to do.

“This is incredible. Genuinely, I’m in awe,” I say, turning to the young woman standing beside me, “You’ve created something spectacular here.” 

She lights up like a rising sun. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m honoured. I poured my heart and soul into this. Painting is my passion!”

---

Corrin Lewis

Corrin is a 2nd year Professional Writing student and a lover of all things fantasy. “In the Eye of the Beholder” is the first story to ever win her a writing contest, which she personally thinks is pretty neat.

The Totem

Shazar stood upon the doorstep of the ancient catacombs. He was adorned with long red hair, silverish blue eyes, pale skin, and tall stature. His face was handsome, and his body was strong, yet there was a medium-sized scar upon his left cheek, the scar of an animal, a grim reminder. Wielding a staff of willow and wearing wolf-skin robes, one may mistake him for a Witch were it not for the totemic pole strapped upon his back. It was carved with the images of various animals, runes, and even battle-scars of its own. With a deep breath of the chilled northern air around him, he placed his left hand upon the iron padlocked door that sealed away generations of his tribe’s dead. He then shut his eyes and began to speak as his mind attuned to the strong spiritual presence before him.

“Ancient dead of the Winters-bane Tribe. I seek permission to enter your resting place. I come with benevolent intent; do you accept?” he asked. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Not a word was spoken back to him. Nor did any rush of cold air move up from the depths of the catacombs. Then,  the padlock suddenly unlocked and fell to the ground with a loud thud to break the silence. He was granted permission indeed, he thought to himself. Thus, he slowly opened the metal door and stepped into the entry stairwell of the dark catacombs.

A little more than ten stairs down, the light of the entryway found itself being consumed in shadow. Shazar knew it would be foolish to attempt to descend in the pitch blackness, so he shut his eyes once again. He placed his left hand behind him, upon the totem which he carried. As he attuned his mind with the mysterious energies within the timber, he willed for a rune of light to brighten his surroundings that otherwise were unknown to him. Five seconds passed, and his will was made manifest. The rune began to shine brightly, illuminating the dark stairwell of the catacombs.  He raised his left eyebrow as his eyes focused on the carvings etched into the stone walls. Images of prosperous chieftains leading their people, warriors defeating hated foes in battle, hunters slaying mighty beasts, and more were perfectly detailed before him. Inquisitive, Shazar looked closer for possible names yet found none.

“A shame…” He idly said to himself.

A sudden banshee-like scream broke his concentration. He felt his blood chill and the hairs upon his body stand to full length. However, he was not as fearful as a warrior would be upon hearing such a terrible sound. Their axes, blades, and spears could not repel nor wound fleshless spirits, yet the knowledge Shazar possessed was able to do that and much more. With a determined mind and face, he continued down into the depths. 

Soon, he found the air of this ancient place colder than the outside, for large amounts of steam followed each breath he exhaled. This is not surprising, he thought, but then came the gentle scent of brimstone. This worried him greatly, for brimstone was known to be a material of ill omen. Such a scent often accompanied demons and their vile cultists. He inhaled sharply, still slowly descending the stairwell of the catacombs; the scent only grew stronger as he ventured deeper and deeper.

---

Conor Bruce

Conor is an avid writer, an enjoyer of books, and most things to do with creative writing. He's currently in his 3rd semester of Professional Writing at Algonquin College, and is eager to begin work in the wider world.

A Conflicted Mind

Image by priscilla Du Preez on unsplash

I know that it would make my heart hurt less

If my thoughts of you filled me with rage

Instead of making me feel sad.

A pain that I can’t describe:

My knowledge of the truth

And not hating you.

I wish I could –

But I don’t.

I won’t.

Can’t

---

Connor Burk

Connor Burk is in his second year of the Algonquin College’s Professional Writing program. He has an unhealthy obsession with the NFL, especially when it comes to fantasy football and the New England Patriots. He is not a poet, and he sure knows it.

Away

Answered the call to war 

The men now march away 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

To fight on foreign shores 

Blood has stained our souls 

Delusions now fall away 

Drowning in foxholes 

State of mind untenable 

Life now slips away 

Death has become plentiful 

We lie in silent tombs 

Body now rots away 

By war we’ve been consumed 

---

Kyle Michaud

Kyle is a second-year Professional Writing student at Algonquin College. He enjoys writing, music, video games, and cool stuff.

The Sound of Falling in Love

As we drove, my eyes were glued to the beautiful view. I hated the cold but nestled in the warmth of a heated car, I couldn’t help but appreciate the soft white glow outside. A thick blanket of snow from the night before weighed over the trees, glistening as the car purred down the driveway. 

I huffed on the window, watching my breath fog up the glass. I pressed a fingertip to it and scribbled a crooked smiley face. 

“That’s gonna leave a mark, you know.”

I turned to face Mark, whose eyes were locked on the road ahead of him, his face expressionless. He turned quickly to look at me, his eyes hardly making contact with mine before he turned back to the road. A heavy silence draped over us for the rest of the car ride.

courtesy of matvevna on pixabay.com

When we finally reached the school, I wasted no time unbuckling my seat belt before shoving myself out of the car. I waited expectantly for him to do the same, but he didn’t move. It was the fifth class of the year and he had been “busy” for the last four. There was no sense arguing, so I made my way alone. 

When I reached the classroom, I slid through the half-open door and settled in at my usual table, the seat where Mark sat still empty.

“Alright, guys! Your prompt for today is to write about what falling in love sounds like. I want to see emotion and style,” Mr. Haybury exclaimed, “and don’t be afraid to stray from the prompt!”

I watched the rest of the class dive for their pencils and start to write, and I tried to force myself to do the same.

With my paper blank, I couldn’t help but wonder. What did love sound like? 

Surely it wasn’t the sound of the turn signal blinking in a silent car or the sound of six missed calls? Maybe it was the sound of a pillow being tossed in between your bodies as a barrier or even crying in the kitchen while he sleeps in the guest room.

The passion, love, and excitement that Mark and I felt were short-lived, but the chore of nursing a dying romance seemed to never end. I couldn’t remember the exact moment I had lost feelings. It wasn’t like I suddenly woke up and realized I wasn’t happy. 

“Ally? Are you ready to share?”

My stomach dropped and I tried to stay calm.

I stood, my chair scraping against the tile, and making the room fall silent. My hands were shaking but still clenched my journal until my fingertips turned white. I swallowed hard and looked up at the class. Thirty-some eyes peered up at me, waiting for me to speak. To them, it was no more than a piece of writing. To me, it was a confession.

I cleared my throat, “I decided to write about the sound of falling out of love”.

And with that, I looked down at my journal, the paper still bare.

---

Madison Costeira

Madison is a second-year Professional Writing student with a love for unhappy endings. She hopes to one day become an established fiction writer

My Best Life

I’ve been following this man for… a long time. Months, at least.

I don’t remember exactly how it started. He comes to the coffee shop I work at. Worked at. I was cleaning when he walked in. He didn’t notice as I stared, dumbfounded, and I almost didn’t catch myself as he turned to look around the shop. I spun and quickly started scrubbing at something nonexistent on the table next to me, already cleaned. It was hard not to notice that he was dressed nicely, with light dress pants, a dark button-up dress shirt, and brown leather shoes. 

“You didn’t notice anything about that guy? Nothing weird?” I asked my co-worker, the one who served him, as soon as the man left. I don’t remember looking at her. I think I was still watching the last spot I’d seen him, as he walked out the door.

“No, nothing really.” She studied my face quizzically for a moment. “Y’know, he did have a scar under his eye, kind of like you.” I may have nodded in response.

He doesn’t have a scar “kind of like me.” This guy looks exactly like me. He is me. He’s the same height as me, roughly the same build. He has my face. He has my curly black hair, my long nose, and my pale, sunless complexion. He has a beard like the one I once had. And he has my scar. The scar that follows the socket of my left eye, from when I fell off my bike as a child.

If he’d only visited once, things would be different. I would have just had this funny story about a secret twin. But he was in the shop every other day ordering my drink, a large mocha. I never served him, so I had to check his order after he left to see. I guess at some point I was waiting for him on my day off. I followed him to the university and discovered that he teaches there. He gives lectures to very large classes, two or three hundred people, easy for me to sit in on. I also learned that he has my name. He has my face and my name. He teaches classical history; that’s what I studied before I dropped out of school. 

I’ve been following him everywhere - to work, to his appointments, to where he runs errands, and to his home, a nice house within walking distance of the college. His nice house, nice car, and his pretty wife. I noticed that he jogs early in the morning on days that he doesn’t go to the coffee shop. 

I can’t stop watching him. He has everything I want. I don’t have an apartment anymore. My clothes were dingy before, but now? And my car… I don’t have enough money to refill the gas tank next time it gets low. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but this man…

He’s living my best life.

COURTESY OF GERALT from PIXELBAY.COM

---

Andrew Gilvary is a current student of Algonquin’s Professional Writing program. He enjoys deconstructing stories and ideas, and in his free time he plays cards and board games, reads comics, and watches TV and movies.

amievenhumananymore?

Screws come loose

Courtesy of comfreak on pixabay.com

Robot parts lay strewn across the floor

My limbs taste of penny dust and

The way copper catches in the sun

I could trick you into thinking it’s beautiful

They stare wherever I go

At the half girl, half something else

With missing parts, a body riddled with holes

But fear not,

My crooked tooth smile and crinkle-cut eyes

Will assuage your uneasiness

Your inkling that I am something

Not quite human

My milkmaid bones creak and rattle

They strain under the weight of the sky

Isn’t it funny?

The machine felt sorry for Atlas.

---

Amanda Monterroso

Amanda is a first year professional writing student. I feel art all around me, and like a painter brushes a canvas or an orchestra plays a symphony, I string words together and hope you see the masterpiece.

Metamorphosis

Photo by Guido Jansen on Unsplash

It started as a tingle. Just a faint, slight tingling at the tip of my fingers. Then the colour of my skin started to change. Most people would go visit a healer if they started turning blue, but…. I had my reasons. Even when my skin started to harden and turn to scales I didn’t ask for help. The scales expanded up my arm and even started to form on my face. My left eye started turning yellow. And the pain. The pain felt like someone had decided to grab my muscles and rip them apart. It felt like someone had inserted acid straight into my veins. The nails on my hands morphed into thick, black claws. 

Whenever I left my home, I wrapped my arm up in a thick bandage and kept the hood of my cloak drawn low over my face. The apothecary knew what was wrong with me. I hadn’t told him, but he was smart. Thankfully he was also kind and gave me herbs and medicines to help manage the pain. Eventually, I couldn’t get myself out of bed. The entire left side of my body turned into scales and it started to creep to the other side. 

Dragon plague. I didn’t know why they called it a plague. It wasn’t contagious. It only affected a select few. It was a “gift”, the ancestors used to call it. Until fear gripped humans and they called it a sickness. They’d killed off those affected, thinking they could catch it. I barked out a laugh that ended in a convulsion of pain. 

Soon the fever started. My skin sweltered but no sweat came. Dragons didn’t sweat. Dragons were made of fire and heat. The problem was that I was only halfway there and there was no guarantee I would live to relish the transformation. In the old days, there’d be songs sung, and someone attending over me to help me through it. But those days were gone, as dead as the smelly rat that had crawled into my floorboards and died. 

I dreamt of fire. It danced all around me playfully.  It gently licked against my skin, and ruffled my hair. It was warm, comforting, and it embraced me. 

A loud crack startled me out of sleep. I looked up in time to see a piece of the ceiling cave-in and fall to the ground. As I shielded my eyes from sparks, I saw that my right hand was now a giant paw.  

Though the flames burned away everything in the house, I was untouched. I revealed sharp teeth with a grin and let out a mighty roar of flame that blasted away the rest of the house. I stretched out my wings with a mighty roar. Let the locals know that the last dragon had risen. 

---

Leah Levert

Leah is a second year Professional Writing student. When she is not writing, she enjoys spending time with her two horses, Belle and Pippa.

City Madness

Content Warning: Substance Abuse  

IMAGE BY CARLOYUEN FROM PIXABAY

He was flying. 

Well, perhaps he was hovering. Feet planted on his apartment balcony, his midsection was pushed over the railing, preventing him from falling. His arms were wide open, eyes closed, but he could imagine it. He wasn’t here, not in this rotting city. He was elsewhere, standing on the edge of a cliff surrounded by nothing but thrashing winds. He wanted to fly, he wanted to soar, but he knew he couldn’t. Now he was on his tiptoes. He would have flipped right off the balcony if he was any taller, and for once, he was glad he was on the shorter side. He pulled his arms together and pressed his heels back into the concrete floor, opening his eyes. The city was beautiful, but it wasn’t for him. He wanted to be elsewhere, by himself, without the responsibilities passed down to him. He wanted to be free, though he couldn’t imagine that happening. It wasn’t realistic. Instead, he pulled open the sliding glass door and sat on the only piece of furniture in his living room; a couch given to him by his brother. He was alone here, no one to lecture him about his bad habits or his wild imagination. He thought of the wind, how harsh it would be on top of a cliff. He imagined the ocean below, the water slamming into the rocks with such an impact that it would crush human bones.  

His hands were shaking as he finished rolling his joints. He made three tonight, and all would be gone within the hour. He didn’t get high to feel good; he got high to forget. If only it were permanent.  

Now is when he began to think of the one who raised him. So strict, so uptight. Was there an ounce of love in his father? No, perhaps there wasn’t. That pissed him off. Lighting up in the middle of his apartment, he inhaled so sharply it made his eyes water. He stifled a cough, pausing before looking back out to the balcony. He didn’t want to jump. He wanted to fly. He wanted to become superhuman and fly right out of this shithole to somewhere more exhilarating. Maybe Ireland? No, he wasn’t a fan of the United Kingdom. Somewhere in Scandinavia possibly, then...that would be nice.  

He was crying. Three joints weren’t going to be enough to make him stop thinking. He needed an immediate solution. Alcohol? Maybe, he could get it delivered. A stronger drug? No, he was through with that. There was nothing left to do but play the waiting game, sitting pathetically on his couch waiting to get that jittery feeling he always got when stoned. He passed the time by holding his fingertip over the lighter’s flame, scratching at his scalp until it hurt, and staring out at the balcony wishing he were elsewhere. Eventually, it hit. 

He was flying. 

---

Alex Jones

Alex Jones is a second-year student in the Professional Writing program at Algonquin College. He enjoys works by Stephen King, James Patterson, and Maggie Stiefvater. He often spent time alone in his room, avoiding the constant patter of his sisters.

Stranger Still

IMAGE BY NICK MAGWOOD FROM PIXABAY

I sit up desperately, dreams fading with each breath. I check the corners; one, two, three, four. Dresser, desk, basket, picture. Clear and empty. In the living room, is my buzzing phone. Cold breeze through the window, warm blanket over tired limbs. My head sags back, and I’m sinking.  

The stranger shuffles their cards leisurely, leaning back into a cushioned chair. The table illuminated in the dark of the throne room, the endless halls echo as the cards spread afar..  

“Kings,” they say, black teeth clacking. My fist closes around a chess piece, the statues in the room cackle.  

“QUIET!” The stranger bellows, hushing them. I startle at the edges of the white knight digging into my palm.  

“You haven’t yet gone, are you afraid to show your hand?” The stranger laughs breathily, sending shivers down to my bones.  

“It’s hurting me, I can’t play,” I beg. The stranger’s cards glow, royal figures coming alive under candlelight. Diamonds, clubs, hearts, spades.  

“Yes, it’ll hurt. It always does.” The stranger’s head lifts, their eyes nothing but holes of pale flesh. “And it always will.” 

“Not if I can help it,” I whisper into the quiet of my room. I’m on my side now, body frozen. Was I talking to someone? Corners, the corners. One, two, three—there! He’s here. Long and static, head up to the ceiling, arms spread; fingers contorted. The black mass, still and watching. I clench my eyes shut.   

“What, you don’t like me in the daylight?” The stranger mocks at the edge of a cliff.  

Ravens peck at my head, a crown of blood dribbles down and my eyes disappear. Big breaths, one, two, three— 

I’m on my back. My eyes won’t open. Keep at it, it starts with the fingers. Claw, grasp, twitch. I hear a door creaking—my door? —and footsteps. They stop beside my bed. Please, I don’t want it. The bed dips, my heart jackhammers and my breath quickens. A weight settles beside me. Something pulls at my blanket. My mind screams and thrashes while my limbs stay still. The pulling stops. Somewhere far away, I heard shrieking laughter.  

I leave my body, floating through the wall, over the city, into the stars. Through the dirt, down towards the earth’s core. The magma is warm like the summer sun. Twirling now, through the oceans over neon jellyfish fields. Spinning faster, to the crushing depths of the seabed and up through the swaying pines. Up further, to the bathroom tile of my childhood home, a short rest on the ceramic. Knocking on the door—one, two, three—OPEN YOUR EYES! 

I’m here again, my fingers are moving. One twitch is all it takes to throw my arm over—I’m free. I sit up, exhausted. The light from outside has barely changed, I can afford a little more sleep. I check the corners, one, two, three, four. Dresser, desk, basket, picture. Clear and empty. Cold breeze through the window, warm blanket over tired limbs. My head sags back, and I’m sinking. 

---

Delina Murray

Delina spent the majority of her childhood and teenage years either face-deep in a book or eyeball-to-pixels with a television. Now, she dissociates on the regular and has rebranded her maladaptive daydreams as “creative skills”. She’d like to publish a novel some day, if that fails she’ll move into the mountains with a horde of canines and wait out the apocalypse.

First Sign of Spring

Image by Andreas Glöckner from Pixabay

The world is waking up from its slumber,

and I have begun to wake up too. 

My worries are melting away

like the cold blanket of snow

beneath my feet. I want

to soak up this warm

feeling and hold

it for the

rest of

time.

---

Danica “Dani” Best is a second-year Professional Writing student looking to enhance her skills as a writer and editor. She is a big nerd who loves fantasy, science fiction, video games and screenplays.

Tabitha

Image by ryan mcguire from pixabay

Content Warning: contains scenes of graphic violence

She wakes. Her heart is beating again. Her chest is rising and falling with her breaths and her ears are ringing. She wonders if she’s dreaming. She slowly pulls herself up from the metal bench. Taking a minute to stop her head from spinning. The fluorescent lights are burning her eyes. She finally stands and walks toward a mirror; but her legs are shaky and she stumbles. Regaining her balance, she looks in the mirror. But the girl staring back isn’t her. 

“Who am I?” she wonders, glancing down at her hands. 

The girl in the mirror follows her every movement but she doesn’t recognize her. The girl’s face is slender and her eyes are dark. She remembers blue eyes and a rounder face. The girl is tall and slender. She remembered herself as short and stocky.  

A door opens across the room and the lights finally dim. 

“Tabitha?” His voice bounces off the walls. All she manages in response is a nod. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, walking towards her. She opens her mouth but can’t manage to make any words.

“I know this seems very strange,” he says. “Come sit.”

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Dr. Foster.”

She makes her way back to the cool, metal bench. 

“What is this?” she whispers, gesturing to the body she feels disconnected from. 

“This is your new body.” He smiles. 

“What?” Her mouth is dry and her words scratch her throat when she speaks. “Wh-why?” 

“Your parents knew you were unhappy in your old body so, after your accident, they saw an opportunity to make you feel comfortable in your skin.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They paid to have you fitted for a new body.” He’s speaking as though her parents just bought her a new car. Like this new body was some sort of gift.

“A new body?”

“New and improved,” he smiles again. “Same mind, different figure.”

She’s stunned. “How?”

“It’s simple, really. We removed your brain, spinal column and nerves then copied their information into the network of neurons in this body.” 

She opens her mouth but again, no words come out. 

“Do you like it?” 

“I liked my old body.”

“But doesn’t this one just feel better? Doesn’t it look better?” His smile is unnerving and she doesn’t like looking at it.

“No,” she says. 

She reaches for the scalpel on a tray next to the bench and swings it into the doctor’s neck. Blood spills and he begins choking, eyes wide. He attempts to grab her but she jumps away. Feeling more agile now, she swings at the doctor again and hits his temple. He falls to the floor, gurgling a few times before he goes silent. 

Blood covers her hands as she leaves the room, slamming the door on her way out. Doctors fill the hallway and they watch, stunned as she passes them. She grips the scalpel tightly. There are two more people who deserve to feel its sharpness. Mother and Father won’t recognize their killer. 

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Molly Briggs-Webb

Molly Briggs-Webb is a professional writing student at Algonquin College. She enjoys writing creative non-fiction, traveling and photography.

The Turkey

PHOTO BY RODNAE PRODUCTIONS FROM PEXELS

As Joseph took the turkey out of the oven, he took a deep breath, inhaling the various scents that came from this magnificent meat. Closing his eyes, he thought of the first time that he was taught how to cook a turkey while he visited his grandparents as a young child. The spices and the herbs, the vegetables, and the stuffing, all these delicious foods cooked with so much love and care. Joseph took in every detail, as he would watch his grandmother prepare the turkey at various family gatherings.  He always remembered the important secret that she would tell him when it came to cooking a turkey. “Always remember to keep it covered so the love doesn’t escape,” she would say. He always liked that message, although as he grew older, he came to realise that covering the turkey was more to keep the moisture in than the love itself, but it was his favourite memory of her. 

After she passed away 10 years ago, he had offered himself as being the one to make the turkey at family gatherings. Of course, no one in the family objected, seeing as how he knew his way around the kitchen best as compared to the rest of the family. Being a trained chef probably helped. Since then, he would not only use the same recipe that his grandmother used, but also use the same love and care that he remembered so fondly. As he slowly removed a part of the tinfoil from the roast pan, a smile grew on his face. He carefully stuck the meat thermometer into the turkey and waited patiently to confirm as to whether the meat was well cooked or not. Unfortunately, he still had a bit of time left and re-covered the meat so that he could return it to the oven.

As he heard the kids running around, he could sense that some of them were about to enter the kitchen. “No running in the kitchen, please,” he said as he carefully returned the turkey to the oven. Entering the kitchen, his youngest daughter stopped and looked up at him, clutching her stuffed bunny. 

“Why do you cover up the turkey?” she asked. 

As he straightened himself up and removed his apron, he looked down at her and smiled. “I cover it so that the love doesn’t escape,” he responded. He took her hand and led her to the living room, where the remainder of the guests laughed, talked, and enjoyed themselves.

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Philippe MacDonald

Philippe MacDonald is a 2nd year student of the Professional Writing program at Algonquin College. He enjoys telling stories and hopes to one day have a book published.

The Heart of It

it hemorrhages

bleeds out

drains itself of all but steadfast loyalty

and dies

a cruel, lonely, death

alone

cast out 

unworthy

not seen or known

for its greatest gift

belief 

in you, in us,

in Him

who was also 

cast out

unworthy

and bled out, too

alone 

because of love

two millennia ago

---

Naomi Johnson

Naomi Johnson is a compulsive note-taker who reads daily and loves listening to audio books over dinner. She plans to complete her first memoir after graduation but her real dream is to “live the religious life.”

To the World

The dirt tasted like ash, but Bane couldn't remember the others having any fires on top of him recently. They did that sometimes. Oh, they didn't know he was there, but he was there nonetheless. They had their bonfires and alcohol, they sang and danced and drank. They got depressed, they had sex, and he was there to witness it all without anyone witnessing him.

As much as he wanted to say he understood their lives, he didn't. He'd never been that type of person. It was the very fact that he wasn't one of them that led Bane to where he was now.

Bane had been eighteen for eighteen years, with no way to tell if he was alive or dead. Oh, everyone believed he was dead; his mama, his cat, and especially the others- the ones who partied over his body now, the ones who'd dragged him way out here and buried him while he was still breathing until nothing but ash and dirt filled his lungs. They all believed he was dead. But he wasn't. Or, not completely.

Bane couldn't tell you why he hadn't been killed. Oh sure, he knew he was at least partially gone, but he could still hear and taste and smell. He could hear worms in the dirt, taste the ash that seeped into the ground, and smell that awful vomit the others left behind for him in the morning.

Over the years, the ground had grown around him, but it had also grown inside of him, and they'd become one. It was soft in some places, heavy in others. Then one day, when he wondered what anything and everything would look like beyond all the underground dark, the earth simply split open for him. After years of only darkness, an eighteen-year-old boy who'd been eighteen for just as long, saw colour for the first time. And Bane... Bane of the Earth was unleashed unto the world.

---

Jasper Compton

I’m someone who really enjoys different types of art ranging from visual to music and more. But I especially love exploring the art of word and story craft.

Life and Death

There used to be a time in my life where things used to matter, when being a kid had no repercussions whatsoever. But that was a long time ago; I’m sixteen now, and the other priorities in my life are far more important than acting like a child without a care in the world. I no longer take life for granted. Not since the day when my whole world came crashing down and shattered into a million pieces.

It was the spring of 2016. It was a cold and wet day sometime in April, but I didn’t seem to have minded the weather, for it had always rained this time of the year.  My feet were planted to the ground, and I was quietly by myself in a place where I hadn’t been to for so long. It had been so long that I had almost forgotten the time when Andrea, my sister, had woken me from my slumber one night, and somehow persuaded me to sneak out of the house, ending up where I was conveniently standing years later. I remembered thinking as small child that she was crazy for trying to communicate with the dead.  But most of all, that she was crazy for dragging along her little brother who feared mostly everything into her shenanigans.  At the time and at eleven-years old, I shivered with nothing but fear, but now—as a sixteen-year-old on the premises—all I felt was death. 

I couldn’t breathe!  

I wanted this punctured hole gone. And the absence that was in my life, it was everywhere. All the things that used to matter to me became meaningless. 

They were nothing but distant memories.

                                                             ***

“It’s hard here without you. My heart, something is missing. It’s where you used to be.” I felt the tightness in my throat choke out the words. I looked at the cement stone, brushing my fingertips over the line between the two dates.

1999-2015

I then looked at the first and last name that was engraved into the light grey stone.

Andrea Taylor.

My spirit was drowning in the river of anguish as that agony, that guilt and anger built up all in one began to grow rapidly. I was pretending that I was happy, when deep down inside, I was drowning to the bottom of such misery. 

“I wonder if anything will go back to normal, Andrea. I just hope one day I’ll feel something other than what I feel right now.” I laid my body next to her grave. “This pain that I feel, it's with me all the time. Nothing helps! Everything is a reminder of that pain that I feel in my chest. It’s like I can’t breathe! You were my everything! And one day, I’m scared that I’ll forget you.” I allowed my sorrows to put me to sleep, dreaming of Andrea and when we would be reunited in another life.

---

Kylie Milne

Kylie M. is currently in her second year of Algonquin in the Professional Writing Program.  She plans to fulfill her dreams of becoming a part time author, while starting a new journey in her life.

The History And Colour of Mirrors

Mirrors are objects that we use to see ourselves, and sometimes they are used to describe the nature of an object or the reflection of our inner self. Before we delve into the answer behind the mirror than the curtains, we need to know how they are made, who made them and what they did to the world.

Mirrors have been with humanity since the beginning of time. In fact, our first mirrors have stuck around to this very day and are accessible to us for free. The reflection of our water is our first mirror. From the tiniest lake to the shores of the sea, our ancestors have always seen how they look. We have been using mirrors since we used the first sticks and stones to start the first fire in the history of humankind.

The production of mirrors first began with metals like a polished bronze or silver plate. Still, the mirrors weren’t clear and effective like todays until the invention of convex mirrors in the 13th-14th century. These allow us to see clearer than before, but it wasn’t enough, yet it did give us forethought that we could make it better. The modern mirrors we see today were invented by Justus von Liebig, a leading figure in organic chemistry at the time. He found a way to mass-produce mirrors by coating the glass with a thin layer of metallic silver which made mirrors reflective.

Mirrors have done a lot of notable things in our life, even if they are day-to-day objects. We can use it to affirm ourselves, get ready for the day, and make sure that we look good and presentable to others. We often don’t think too deeply about the things we hold, like our pencils, shampoo, laptops and phones, because we look at them more with practicality than with its origins; they are just there for you to use, which is fine. Not everyone has the time to open multiple tabs in their browser to research pencils and how they work their magic. Art is often associated with mirrors because of the reflection that a mirror gives. Seeing oneself or an object can give a profound meaning and imagination. 

Overall, mirrors are an object we use every day. They’ve been with us forever and have done many good things in our lives. Now, the answer to the original intent of this piece, what kind of colour does your mirror give you? The answer is as obvious as you can tell; the colour of the mirror's reflection is what you see. This is a simple answer. A more profound question would be, “what kind of colour do you see yourself in the mirror?” I don’t have the answer to that; when you already have the answer, take a good look at what you see. We all have good colours waiting in the mirror.

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My name is Thomas Arcilla and I’m a second-year professional student at Algonquin college. I like video games and writing fantasy novels.