The Barn

Photo by Harsh Kushwaha from Pexels

“Nicole thinks back. “I was trying to take a picture at the top,” she says, remembering. “Oh gods, my camera must be wrecked.””

---

When Nicole comes to, it’s with hay tangled in her hair and a wet pig snout nudging her cheek. It’s an effort to get her eyes to open, and sitting up hurts more than it’s probably worth.

“Where…” she wonders out loud, digging her fingers into the dirt below her. It’s damp, immediately getting trapped in her fingernails. She picks out pieces of hay while surveying her surroundings. The pig that was so intent on waking her up is sitting and watching her now, and it's so cute that she nearly regrets the bacon she had for breakfast that morning – if it was even still the same day. She’s obviously in a barn – there’s chickens in a far corner that are watching her warily, and now that she can focus on more than the disorientation, the familiar petting zoo smell from her childhood hangs in the air.

Photo by Barbara Barbosa

She reaches out to touch the pig, but it gets up and scurries away, crossing the length of the barn and nudging one of the doors open. She looks to herself, then, and notes that she’s in a different pair of pants than she remembers putting on. The shirt is different too, and underneath it is a thick bandage. She presses a hand to it as she heaves herself up off the floor, groaning at the way the wound pulls. She manages a step towards the doors, but it’s so painful she decides to just stay in place.

What happened to her?

She waits for what feels like hours before the pig comes trotting back into the barn, returning to her side. Behind the pig is the most beautiful woman she’s ever met. She’s tall, with dark skin and tight curls pulled into a bun. She’s wearing well-fitted dark blue jeans and a lighter blue button up with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and Nicole feels her heart begin to race.

“You took quite a fall,” the woman says, “I thought for sure you were a goner for a bit, there.”

“A fall?” Nicole asks.

“You don’t remember? I found you at the bottom of a mountain – half in a ravine. Were you rock climbing?”

Nicole thinks back. “I was trying to take a picture at the top,” she says, remembering. “Oh gods, my camera must be wrecked.”

The woman rummages in her jeans pockets. “The SD card was salvageable, but I transferred it to a USB for you anyway.” She tosses it to Nicole, who fumbles but ultimately manages to catch it.

“Thank you…” She trails off, not knowing the woman’s name.

“Artemis,” The woman says. “Sorry, I should have said earlier. I live here, and I was on a walk when I came across  you. The hospital was too far, so I nursed you back to health here.”

“Your parents must have been big Greek mythology fans,” Nicole jokes. “Thank you, though. What’s my prognosis like?”

“Something like that,” Artemis agrees, eyes twinkling. “You’ll be just fine. The wound in your abdomen is because when you fell a branch broke your fall – but it’s clean and stitched up, you’re just going to be sore for a while. I’m surprised you’re standing, actually.”

“Me too,” Nicole says. “You live here? In the barn?” She glances around again and sees a lofted bed in one of the far corners.

“What’s wrong with living in a barn?” Artemis’ eyes flash and Nicole quickly backpedals.

“Nothing! I just imagined a cottage or something separate from the animals.”

Artemis shrugs. “Why take up that much space when I could just have the one place? I like being near the animals as well. You get used to the smell, I assure you.”

Nicole smiles. She takes small, hesitant steps towards where Artemis is standing. It takes much longer than it should, and she’s more than embarrassed when she finally makes it across the barn, but she finally manages to stand in front of the woman who saved her life.

“Thank you, really,” she says. “I don’t know how I can repay you for what you did for me.”

Artemis’ eyes flicker from her eyes to her lips. “Well, I can think of one way… if your preferences are the same as mine, of course.”

Nicole feels a smile starting to tug at her lips. “Oh, I’m sure our preferences align just fine.”

Artemis reaches out a hand. “Come, then, I promise to be careful with that wound of yours.” 

---

Basil Belliveau

When not attending classes or curling up with an oversized mug of tea and a good classic, Basil can be found working away at whatever recent project has caught their fancy. Their works tend to stay in the Romance and Fantasy genres, but they are also known to write a poem or three.

The Crater

photo by matthew devries from pexels

Four hundred million years ago. The early Devonian era. Tentacled faced nautiloids hunt the natal waters. The climate begins to moisten, surface temperatures drop. For once, land flora thrives. Invertebrates begin to wriggle their way onto land. Life oozes out of the oceans to cover the barren rocks.

It is into this waking world that a meteor falls, plunging into what was then a primordial sea. It passes through the waters and the soil deposits, shattering the Precambrian shield with such force that the meteor is instantly vaporized. The heat causes the formation of myriad melt rocks and glass. Fleshy, glistening feldspar and jeweled quartz, among other silicates, are formed from the energy of the impact into the autochthonous gneiss of the bedrock.

The crater shimmers: an empty, lidless eye staring back at the sky which birthed it.

Time becomes liquid, ebbing and flowing with its own inscrutable whim. The meteor is trailing fire. Dinosaurs are howling. An immense, black scaffolding of synthetic polymer reaches upwards, piercing the stratosphere. Humanity ascends into the clouds like a line of shoppers on a crowded escalator. A man in heavy plaid surveys the forest from an ancient fire-tower, pointing passed the unseen exodus to a thick column of smoke curling from the old growth. A car pulls up to the lip of the crater. The meteor is striking the earth and then reversing into the sky. A couple alights from the vehicle. Humanity is leaving the planet behind. A dromaeosaur dies in the dust. Elsewhen, the forest is burning.

“I saw her,” says the young woman, leaning against the car. She lights a cigarette and stares out at the crater. Bushy pines wave in the distance. The faint scent of wood smoke is on the breeze. “My aunt Mimi. Right after I found out.”

The young man is peering over the edge at the raw earth below. He says nothing, waits for her to continue.

“I was in the café. I looked up and saw this woman with long hair in a bright yellow sheath dress. Like from the sixties. She was smiling in my direction. I looked around to see if there was anyone else there she could be looking at, but I was alone. When I turned back towards her, she was gone.”

The young man, for a moment, thinks he hears the roaring of flames, but it is only the wind soughing through the needles and leaves around them.

“It wasn’t until the funeral that I saw the picture. Sat on top of her coffin – it was of her when she was a teacher, young. Her hair was so long and beautiful. She was wearing a yellow dress.”

The young man feels a numbing sadness trickle down his spine. How can I be depressed out here, he thinks, among this silence, this empty beauty. He looks towards the sky, yearns to climb up and away from the ground, as the crater shrinks to a dot below him. Leave the world behind. Maybe, or maybe not, she’ll come too.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she says, joining him at the crater’s edge. “But I think time is like a recording device. Sometimes the old tapes overdub this one. She was the same age as me in that picture.”

“Maybe this is the old tape,” he says, gesturing at the landscape, but meaning the two of them. She smokes in silence.

The crater is filled, emptied. The trees dance with the wind and wither with the flames. Deer smoulder in the rubble, an ichthyosaur boils in the sea. The car arrives, the car departs. The tape plays on.      

---

Matt Smith

Matt Smith is a writer and musician from somewhere in eastern Ontario. He enjoys the shadows of things more than the things themselves, loud music, quiet music, children’s artwork, crime, stone tapes and sigils. He writes in order to hallucinate.

If Walls Could Talk

She walks into the kitchen and twists both my knobs, causing water to gush out of my faucet and fill my tub with lukewarm water. He’s already left for work, so she’s a lot more relaxed as she washes the dishes that haven’t been broken after last night. Most of them have been picked out of my tub, but I can still feel a few smaller ones floating around. I hope she’s careful not to hurt herself on them.

            Last night was, in my opinion, the angriest he’s ever been. From what I remember of the three months they’ve been here, he’s never broken anything before. It happened in the living room so no one in the kitchen saw it, but we did hear most of it.

            I don’t really know what set him off this time. Probably just looking for an excuse to beat her up again. It lasted a long time, at least an hour according to the kitchen clock. I remember the living room walls groaning in pain from when he slammed her into them. Of course, he couldn’t hear them. None of our past owners could hear us whenever we talked. I don’t really know why; the stove once said that it’s probably because they don’t speak the same as we do. Which doesn’t make any sense, since we can all understand them just fine.

            I could hear her whimpering, and his work boots thumping their way towards the kitchen.

            “Goddamn bleedin’ heart whore,” he slurred to no one in particular, drunkenly stumbling into the kitchen. After finishing off what looked to be the last of his beer bottle, he smashed it into my tub full of dirty dishes, breaking both the bottle and some of the dishes inside. I hissed in pain as he turned around, obviously unaware of how much that hurt, and lazily made his way down to the basement.

            “It’s been five minutes,” I remember the kitchen clock saying, sounding concerned. “I can’t hear anythi- oh, wait, I think I hear her getting up now.”

            Without a word, she had gotten herself up and staggered over to my tub, one arm wrapped around her middle while she sorted through and picked out broken pieces of china. She ended up having to empty out my whole tub and sort out the broken pieces, throwing them in the trash. When she finished, she silently hobbled out of the kitchen and up the stairs,

            Looking at her now, although the red stuff stopped coming out of her nose, most of her face was still covered in bruises, with one eye completely swollen shut.

            “I don’t understand why she stays with him,” The drying rack says as she places the now clean dishes on them. “He’s such an ass. I wish the police took him away last week. They would have if she didn’t cover for him.”

            “Well, maybe she likes it,” the stove replied. “Why else would she take it?”

            “That’s bullshit,” the fridge fired back. “Who’d want to get themselves hurt on purpose?”

            “I don’t know, honestly. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about humans, it’s that they’re hard to understand.” I sighed. “Remember what happened to our first owners? Some strange human broke in just to break them. They didn’t even take anything, and I’m almost certain they didn’t have a good reason.”

            “Maybe they did, and we just never learned the reason why,” the drying rack piped up.

            “Yeah. And maybe he’s got a good reason for beating the shit out of her every other night,” the fridge responded drily. The kitchen fell silent, the only sounds coming from her as she finished off the last of the dishes, singing as she worked.

            I remember hearing this song on the radio once, though I can’t remember when. In the short time she’s been here, I’ve come to enjoy her singing. She has a beautiful voice. I wish she’d sing more often, and she used to until he beat her for it.

            Just then, the sound of keys unlocking the door echoed down the front hall, along with the front door yelling “Oh shit, he came back! He isn’t supposed to be here this early, and he’s looking real pissed o-ack!”

            The front door cried out as it was slammed open, their doorknob getting smashed into the wall who in turn howled in pain as well. Leaving the front door still wide open, his feet began to quickly stomp down the hall, getting louder as he approached the kitchen. She immediately stopped singing, her face paling and she frantically looked around, probably trying to escape before he made it to her location. Of course, unfortunately, it was too late.

            In one swift motion, he wrapped one hand around her throat, choking her as he pulled her in close. He was breathing heavily, face red with either anger or drunkenness…or maybe both.

            “You fuckin’ bitch,” he whispered menacingly to her face. “Mind telling me just what the fuck were the cops doin’ at my job? Huh? Wanna tell me why they were lookin’ for me?”

            “I-I don’t…. know….” She gasped out in response, struggling to breathe. “…. please…. let me go….”

            He tightened his grip around her throat, his voice much louder this time “You fuckin’ called them, didn’t you? Better yet, you’ve gotten the neighbor to eh? You’ve been talkin’ to him an awful lot lately. Probably gone over to suck his dick while I was gone huh? I’m right, aren’t I? Well?! SAY SOMETHING YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING SLUT!!”

            “She can’t say anything because you’re choking her, dumbass!” the drying rack shot back.

            “Holy shit, I think he’s going to kill her!” the clock shrieked hysterically. “Look at her! She can’t even breathe!”

            Just then, her hand quickly shot up and grabbed at his hair, pulling his head down. Hard. He let out a string of curse words and let go of her. She took the opportunity and tried to make a run for it, but he quickly recovered and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back in and knocking her off her feet just as she almost made it out of the kitchen. As she screamed and clawed at his hand, he swung her around the kitchen in my direction.

CRACK!

            The side of her head smashed against the edge of my tub. And although it really hurt, the sound her head made when it hit me scared most of the pain away. I don’t know what it is, but something feels off about that sound. Like it wasn’t supposed to happen. He let go of her hair, and she hit the floor with a soft thump.

            “Hey…um,” The fridge’s voice was shaking, “The floor’s looking awfully red now, and she’s not getting up.”

            “Wait, don’t tell me she’s…?” The stove trailed off, sounding scared. I couldn’t answer them. My mind went blank, and the kitchen felt cold all of a sudden.

            He took several steps back, his face completely drained of the colour from earlier. Running a hand through his hair, he muttered several things under his breath, but the one thing I was able to catch, over and over again, were the words “Shit, shit, shit, shit,”

            Sirens began to sound off very close to the house. His head jerked upwards, expression slowly filling with dread. Several pairs of feet abruptly thumped into the house, and two “Policemen” ran up to him and tackled him to the ground, screaming and cursing. While one of the “Policemen” fastened something made of metal around his wrists and pushed him out of the kitchen, the other took one look at her lying on the ground and stepped out into the hallway yelling to someone outside, possibly the other “Policemen”, to go call “The Paramedics”.

            I remember the last time “The Paramedics” came here. They packed up our first owners carrying them away with a white sheet on top, and they never came back. I know this because the strange human broke them here in the kitchen. As we all waited, I prayed that they wouldn’t put the white sheet on her too.

            They came in and knelt on the ground next to her, setting up all kinds of machines and tools that I’ve never seen before.

            “Wait, what are they doing?” The drying rack asked.

            “Isn’t it obvious? They’re trying to fix her.” The stove responded.

            “Hold on. Why’s that one shaking her head? What happened?”

            “Now they’re both leaving. Are they going to get more stuff to help fix her?”

            “No, wait, I hear one of them coming back,” The kitchen clock chimed in.

            One of “The Paramedics”, the one that shook her head, came back into the kitchen, and what I saw her carrying took what little hope I had left.

            “It’s a white sheet,” I felt numb. “He broke her.”

---

Amal Sheikhmusse

Amal Sheikhmusse is a second-year student in the Professional Writing Program. Although she is studying to become an editor, she decided one afternoon, whilst eating a cup of slightly-raw instant ramen, to write a story about talking house appliances. She politely refuses to comment on whether this story is based on personal experience.

Masked Bandits

One summer, when I was 10, there was a heat wave. It was so hot! Because our house was so open concept, it got hot really quick and made it too hot to even sleep upstairs. My family and I unrolled our sleeping bags in the basement where it was cool. We were all crisscrossed together. We fell asleep like any regular night, but piled on the floor of our basement.

I woke up to my mom assuring my little brother that everything was going to be okay. Confused, I looked over and asked what was wrong. My mom held a finger to her lips and motioned me to sit next to her, she indicated to me that she heard something upstairs. I listened closely, and I realized she was right. I heard cupboards being opened and creaking footsteps.

My sister popped her head up asking what’s that noise? I told her to keep quiet and that we thought someone was upstairs. We all huddled close, very scared. We sat there listening to the sounds, frozen in fear, not knowing what to do. Mom reached for her cell phone and said she was going to call the police and we all had to keep very quiet. My heart sank to my stomach: this meant it was real; we were being robbed. We all watched my mom as she bravely dialed 911. She spoke into the phone about she thought we were being robbed. She talked in a harsh whisper; you could hear the frantic quality in her voice. This made it all the more surreal.

The police kept us on the line while they headed over. They asked for a bunch of details and kept us calm. They asked us what time had we heard them around? They wanted to know how long we thought they had been there. We could hear the sirens as the police parked at our house. We heard the police come in; my mom grabbed my hand and squeezed it. It felt like they were up there for hours. My brother started to cry a little. My mom stayed strong. I heard someone come down the stairs: it was the policeman. I held my breath. He said there was nothing to fear, we were being robbed. But not by a person, like we expected. . . it was a family of raccoons.

We all let out a collective breath. Apparently, we’d left the garage door open and a family of raccoons got into our camping food. The police were really nice about it and assured us they scared the raccoons away . After the police left, we all debriefed how scary that was for all of us. We all laughed as well because who can say they were robbed by raccoons!

---

Josee Leclair

I am a Creative Writing student at Algonquin College. In my spare time, I like to read, knit, and watch lots of YouTube!

The Joy of Laughter

Slowly,

The corners of your mouth upturn,

Your head falls back,

A sound escapes your mouth,

A repetitive sound.

Soft and quiet,

Growing in volume,

Tickling your ribs,

Creating an ache in your gut.

Your friend is louder,

Causing the reaction to grow,

Eventually it subsides,

Only the occasional sound escaping your lips,

With seconds between.

An ugly noise escapes your nose,

Your friend begins again,

The sounds closer together,

Growing in volume once again.

A chain reaction,

Holding your belly,

Letting the sounds lull you,

A sense of calm overcoming.

Joy.

---

Lillian Knoops

Lillian is an aspiring writer/editor still searching high and low for her niche in writing. One day she may find it.

Seasons of a Phantom Memory - Poetry Collection

By Karim Abbadi

A Note from the Author

“This collection of poetry reminisces on memories of my personal adolescent experiences in high school. It talks about some of the things we might go through growing up and tells a tale of how these hardships are a trail of passage to something better when we take the time to work for it. Whichever one you read, I hope it resonates with you. Enjoy!”

---

Autumns Wisp in Red Hair

Whispering breeze and wrestled leaves

Withering ease with soothing melodies.

Mindless in slumber, clueless in time.

An Autumn foresight,

a flame amidst the mist.

Blisters a vision, a location, A future?

Roams a wisp,  Red Haired lingerer. 

Bristling fragments and opened brown doors

Sights out of reach, so close, peripheral.

A place within, of marble, a cubical, 

Lockers to a wall, divine lights and all.

Slowly menaced the eyes flamed ruby

From side to center locked eyes to-stead. 

A flaring premonition? 

A Meta-to-fore? A potential encounter?

Whispering breeze and soothing melodies.

For a shadow, awakener of cold sweat.

Purple sky with starless eyes, 

Concern that lies within,

A Winter Night of the Dancing Flame.

---

A Winter Night of the Dancing Flame

Outspoken hearts and reserved farts,

Idle principal, surreal introversion,

A mask we wear outside. 

Volcanic erupt, rubies in the rough,

By wilderness, Charisma, 

contempt left to shelter.

Blizzard, abrupt, sapphires forged sturdier.

An unsuspected encounter.

Ash begins its trickled blossom,

As varied light opens a closer dark horizon,

Tiding sky Navies time by usual yesteryear.

Fire and Ice blooming

 a ripe affinity, looming.

Scorpio & Aquarius.

Surreal introversion and an outspoken heart,

This affinity by definition.

Associates, affiliation, a monotype is born,

Communion of warmth, 

weather to a stereo, whispering breeze and frozen melodies.

The honeymoon match begins awaits Spring Stakes a Miss.

---

Spring Stakes a Miss

An Autumn Ruby, a Winter Sapphire,

 freeze enchanted by flame.

Burning bliss, a sentient masochist,

rhythm lost in time. 

Forces claim a context of few. 

Troubled sensation, awkward temptation,

Wandering a world abound. 

Ritual mournings, a caffeinated upholding,

Time chained to by social acquisition.

Burden savoured by missing Justice.

Patience to the Flame,

Dexterity from the Frozen, 

Freeze into reflection, sadden into falsehood

By Sapphires stuttered Blizzard.

Blaze the flame the Ruby voids missing,

In its youth yearns answers to experience

Under Sappire’s storm lies truth camo-stood.

With Ruby’s Flames and Sapphires Ice across once more,

Discretion folds as wise as symbolism from both,

For Summers Mocha’s a Sign, testing fate once more, together.

---

Summers Mocha’s a Sign

Heat sings radiantly by Ruby’s glow,

Songs soothe storms amidst Sapphire’s snow.

Icecap caffeinated by a briber to sweet, 

Ruby vocals warmth, blazing sun, a colder shoulder,

Vulnerable to misfortune, as dread fueled mute.

Blizzards storms to shield covert Flames, 

Contemplation of darkness, dim as flint.

Sapphires Ice and Ruby Flames, 

Together in patients, comradery to gain. 

Flames flint further upon hopeful turmoil.

Ice on flames sparkles spawns crystal charmers.

At the risk of moist storms, fallen energy amiss.

A flaring premonition.

No Metaphore for pain. 

Flames brighter by day,

Ice colder in rain,

A time long missed, a beloved experienced,

Fragments hold these years of youth.

Con-Graduation Adolescents treasures,

For enduring the Seasons of a Phantom Memory.

---

Seasons of a Phantom Memory

Mortal desire to relive, 

Once thought, easy to sink.

Lovelier this time, agony much later.

Philosapism, self-awareness its diagnostics,

As our seven deadly sins grow founder.

Greed to access,

Envy of another,

Gluttony for more,

Lust into masochism,

Sloth driven depression,

Wraith a Vengeanful obsession,

Pride me to sleep with ease.

Good comes and goes,

Bad cherished by Agony. 

Reasons unknown to our chemical matrix.

Heartfelt phantom is known to past,

Back to the Future, DeLorean does not.

Habit a prison, a barrier to mind,

As the road to recovery is a misfit journey, it’s only suffice.

Symptoms, Autumns Wisp in Red Hair.

---

Karim Abbadi

Greetings! An interest of mine is my love of storytelling, both fiction and non-fiction. The wealth of history and connection we have with characters and their personalities from all walks of life and literature take a special place in our hearts to whom we desire to aspire too.

Turpentine

My heart is a white shed that sits atop a hill.

A milk crate swing hangs low between two pines.

There, a younger self sat swinging.

Bruised knees and sap sticky.

I store what’s needed in that shed.

Some things tucked neatly.

Others, thrown to bury in a pile.

And the bits I like I hang on that clothesline.

It groans with rust and the wire clefts my soft hands.

But I do the pulling anyway.

I let the scattered rocks freeze and ache my bare feet.

And listen to the wind try and get me.

---

Tori Edwards

Tori is a professional writing student from Newfoundland, Canada. When not writing or drawing you might find her listening to rock and roll or summoning the stray cats from the neighbourhood like a witch.